HALF LIVES 3: OUR LIVES
by BinaryTales
Summary: : Roy and Ed have been together for 15 years now—Roy prepares to fulfill his 520-cenz promise to make Amestris a democracy, but just before Roy's 50th birthday and his wedding to Edward a tell-all biography about Mustang is published that sets the country on its ear-because the 'truth' about the Promised Day is about to come out, with Roy cast as the evil genius behind it all
1. Chapter 1

OUR LIVES:

A SEQUEL TO "HALF LIVES" AND "WHOLE LIVES

CHAPTER 1: "THE PICKLOCKS OF BIOGRAPHERS"

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

"_He was a man, and as a man he knew  
Love, separation, sorrow, joy and death.  
He was a master of the tricks of war,  
The incarnation of a national dream…_

_You will know you have the whole of him  
Pinned down, mapped out, easy to understand-  
And so you have.  
All things except the heart  
The heart he kept himself, that answers all.  
For here was someone who lived all his life  
In the most fierce and open light of the sun…_

_Listened and talked with every sort of man,  
And kept his heart a secret to the end  
From all the picklocks of biographers."_

_ (from "The Army of Northern Virginia" by Stephen Vincent Benet)_

The professor was rumpled and unshaven and curled up in an impossible knot with his head pillowed on the edge of the window. The seat beside him was covered with notebooks and there was a half-eaten sandwich on the tray table in front of him. His limp fingers were still wrapped around a cup of coffee, long since gone cold.

The boy lost his nerve. He swallowed nervously, the hands clutching the treasured book sweaty and cold. He'd heard the Great Man had a fearsome temper. He'd heard the Great Man did not suffer fools at all, gladly or otherwise. It had taken all his courage to sneak up to this railway car in hopes of just saying hello and maybe getting his treasured book signed.

Instead, the boy sighed at his own cowardice and was about to close the compartment door and slip back to his own seat when a loud crackle on the overhead speaker announced that they would be arriving in East City in thirty minutes.

The sleeper bolted awake, spilling his coffee everywhere and muttering something that sounded like _"AL! AL, no! Don't leave me!"_ Topaz eyes were wild with disorientation…

…then he noticed he was not alone.

Grimacing, he wiped the cold coffee off his hand using the sleeve of his dusty coat. "Hello." The expression softened. 'I didn't hear you come in."

The boy shrank back a little. "I'm…I'm sorry…I…"

There was a weary smile. "What's your name?"

"Jordie…Jordie Lane." His hands shook slightly as he held out the book Jordie had read from cover to cover, so excited over the theories it proposed. "I…I just wanted…"

"I won't bite.' The smile deepened into a grin and the rumpled man pushed back the messy blonde fringe that fell into his eyes and adjusted his glasses. "Honest. I think I recognize that," he nodded at the volume. "You read it?"

Jordie's fear evaporated. "Oh yes sir!" he blurted. "It's so exciting! You really think people will be able to fly in rockets one day?"

The Great Man sat up and rubbed the back of his neck, stiff from falling asleep at such an unlikely angle. "Welllll," he drawled, "it's an interesting hypothesis. I wanted to bring Professor Gagarin's theories to Amestris. A lot of the Drachman scientists didn't want to listen to my old friend, but I thought if I translated Pyotir's work and included my own research in experimental _hwacha_ rockets used in the Xingese border wars in the 15th Century and their use of fireworks in battle it might help people accept his theories." He yawned, stretched like a cat and took another bite of the now stale sandwich. "Looks like people might actually listen to him now that we got it in print"

"And you're really going to test them at the Institute? Gosh!" the boy's face was alight. "I wish I could see that!"

"You'll see it if I blow myself up," Edward Elric chuckled. "I'll be in the news. _All_ over," he added, snickering at his own jest.

By the time that Jordie's mother located him the boy was chatting away with the famous inventor and aviator as easily as if they'd known each other for years. When she peeked into the compartment, Professor Elric waved a cheery greeting. "Bright kid you got here, Mrs. Lane. You ought to send him to Hohenheim. We need minds like his."

The woman shook her head with a sigh. "Oh, he's dying to go, but I'm afraid the tuition-"

"Gimme that." Ed snatched the copy of _The Exploration of Space By Means Of Reaction Devices (__Исследование мировых пространств реактивными приборами)__ by Pyotir Gagarin and Edward Elric_ right out of the boy's hands. He scribbled an autograph, a phone number and an address. "I want you to call this number soon as you get to East City. Call collect and ask for Sheska. Tell her I gave you the number and told you to call. Then write a letter to this address. Tell 'em you want an application—ask for a packet for the Beacon Grant. They'll want your school records or a letter from your teacher at home and one from your folks." He glanced up at the incredulous look on Mrs. Lane's face. "This isn't a joke," he told her gently. "And what the hell else is Mustang gonna do with his money? Buy more horses? And it ain't like my kids need new shoes. There's enough and more than enough. You get that paperwork to my office. We'll worry over the details later. Now," he began patting his pockets and flipping through the notebooks on the seat. "where the hell did I put my _Owner's Manual?"_

"You mean this?" Jordie held up a black leather travel journal, unlocked and apparently overstuffed with photographs. One of the photos was slipping out and for a split second the boy and his mother got a glimpse of a very candid snap of the President with his shirt off, apparently fondling his own nipples.

Red faced, Ed snatched it away and tucked it inside his waistcoat. "Ooop! Sorry! That's ….classified. Uh…_undercover_…information…" he stammered, relieved that Jordie had not accidentally opened the little wooden case that contained certain anatomically correct 'research tools' that Edward always took with him on long journeys away from home which had nothing to do with rocketry but were guaranteed to be classified as 'reaction devices', at least as far as Edward was concerned….

###

CENTRAL HQ

OCTOBER 1935

A bomb was about to go off in the office of the Fuhrer President.

It was sitting behind the desk, grinding its teeth behind a carefully schooled expression.

"Let me make _absolutely_ sure I am hearing you correctly. You want me…the Fuhrer President of Amestris and Commander in Chief of the State Military…to stand on stage…in public…_while a half-naked girl jumps out of my birthday cake?"_

"Yessir!"

If Colonel Hawkeye had been in the room she would have advised the press team to take five very large steps back from the President's desk and pray that they weren't wearing anything exceptionally _flammable._

There were faint rumbling sounds deep in the President's throat, the same kind the staff used to hear whenever Hughes called Mustang up to gush over the wonders of his Gracia's cooking or how limber and randy she was in bed despite her pregnancy. Hawkeye would have quickly noted the tension in his right arm and the incessant _tap-tap-taptaptap_ cadence of his manicured fingertips on the desktop, always a warning that a phone was about to be slammed, thrown or ignited.

Hughes was gone, and short of Edward Elric there wasn't a lot that could get under his skin nowadays, with the unpleasant exception of the Presidential Press Corp that currently swarmed around his office with bright smiles, waving their hands, showing him sketches and scribbles and using irritating superlatives like '_amazing'_ and '_star-studded'_ and '_salute'_. That last one particularly irked the President. A salute was a recognition of superior rank or profound respect. As far as Roy Mustang was concerned, having a sequin clad film siren jump out of a cardboard cake on stage before cooing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President!" to the Fuhrer for the radio listeners was repugnant. Salute? The only 'salute' the proposed musical number was worth would be the salute inside the shorts of nearly every man in the nation. Even Falman reluctantly admitted that the buxom blonde was 'aesthetically appealing', especially romping in a swimsuit in the latest two-reeler at the local picture show. Aunt Chris called her Miss Mattressback and snorted with laughter every time The Ice Cream Blonde showed up in the papers fluttering several inches of fake eyelashes. Whores, whitewashed or otherwise, were too familiar to hold any charms for Roy. The blond in his bed might have had a shittier attitude but was a hundred times more exciting than a peroxide doxie with bee-stung lips.

As for this publicity stunt with The Ice Cream Blonde leaping out of Roy's birthday cake?

"_I think not."_

A half dozen faces crumpled in regret. "But, Mr. President! Think about the publicity this gala will bring—and after all, it is for your favorite charity-"

"-the ratings on Radio Capital will go through the roof—"

"—not to mention the newsreel footage—"

"-your popularity polls will surge, probably higher than they've been all year—not like you _need_ the good press, but—"

"—you really want to give your image a shot in the arm, considering what you're going to be announcing about the democracy initiative next month. You know there's going to be one hell of a backlash. You want to be riding high in the public eye before you go tearing the whole world apart, and—"

"—and who wouldn't want to be serenaded by Gladys Turlough? I know _I _would!"

Manicured fingers steepled under a face that was still boyishly attractive after five decades. Keen eyes, black as ink, lifted to meet Breda's. They were absolutely implacable.

"Breda…chain up your _dogs_. I am not getting up on that stage. There will be no ladies jumping out of cakes, famous or otherwise. The _only_ reason I even agreed to this farce was because you agreed it was a good strategic move prior to the announcement at Parliament in December about the government changeover. That—and that it will raise money for the scholarship grants for the institute." He'd relied on the strategic genius of Heymans Breda for two decades now, in peace and war, but having to cope with the necessary evil of his personal press and publicity staff, Roy suspected, was as hard on his old friend as it was on Roy himself.

What the hell did all this fiftieth birthday gala nonsense have to do with running a nation anyway? Ed had played to the media for the first time when he was a State Alchemist, but that was primarily to draw the attention of the homunculi so he could take them on in a fight. More recently he'd learned how to play ball with the papers and radio and the newsreels to promote the budding airship and aeroplane industry that was taking the known world by storm. Ed—and most assuredly Alphonse—had become damned good at grabbing headlines when it suited them, and always for a cause, not simply to draw attention to their personal lives.

Roy preferred a more subtle approach to the public. Roy had taken care of his nation for over fifteen years now, forged new alliances and gone a long way to establish truce with quarrelsome border nations such as Creta. He'd done it The Mustang Way—above the boards and behind the scenes, deftly manipulating behind the scenes when open overtures failed to yield success. The very idea of a public spectacle with radio and cinema and vaudeville celebrities singing his praises and showing off in public….well, damn it, it just wasn't The Mustang Way.

Roy had made a counter offer. The Hohenheim Institute and Academy, home to some of the best and brightest young minds in the known world, had its own fine arts school, sponsored, in no small part, by King Claudio Ricco of Aerugo. If there had to be some sort of public acknowledgement of Roy Mustang turning fifty, why not showcase the students? After all, they were the ones who would benefit…not to mention it would draw attention away from Roy, which was his real goal.

That suggestion had met with much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Breda, ring master to this circus of nitwits who worked tirelessly to keep the Fuhrer 'popular' and beloved in the public eye, just shook his head and sighed. "Look, Boss," he rumpled his short red crew cut in frustration, "I _know_ you don't want to do this. I get it. I really do. I don't like it either. I know you don't like public displays and you'd rather we planned something, y'know, a little more cultured. More dignified—say, a symphony or something. But right now," he held up his broad hand, level with Roy's chilly gaze," you're on a good even keel. Right after November, you're gonna announce the permanent dissolution of the Military State and the formation of a democracy. We know, sir. We've seen this coming since you took your oath of office. But it's going to shake up the public and people are going to panic. You need all the good will you can get. I _know_ you hate this—but it can help your image. The people love you—""

Roy glanced at his watch cynically. "Well, at the _moment_ they do—"

"—right, so let's keep up the momentum. We'll tone it down." He glanced nervously at his staff. "I'll make 'em tone it down. You won't even have to come onstage. Just wave from the Presidential box. It'll be okay. Okay?"

This was coming from the man who had so skillfully manipulated the press by commandeering Radio Capital and painting Roy as a patriotic loyalist (and Major General Armstrong as the sole architect of the coup in Central) on The Promised Day. He knew Roy and he knew what he was doing.

Roy hated to admit defeat, but he'd been outflanked by the finest goddamn chess player in the whole Amestrian military.

Breda was close enough to see a vein begin to throb prominently on Roy Mustang's forehead. Time to get out before getting singed. He gathered up his notes and saluted. "That's all I have to report at this time, Sir!"

"We'll discuss this tomorrow. Dismissed!"

As soon as the door closed behind them Roy sank back into his chair and groaned. "Gladys Turlough….jumping out of _my_ birthday cake." He reached in his top desk drawer for an aspirin, wishing he had some whisky to wash it down with. "Ed will _never_ let me live this down…."

###

"It's not like we can get him anything he can't get himself—well, except maybe some fresh breeding stock for the stables. I don't see that happening anytime soon."

Jean Havoc scratched thoughtfully at his goatee and pulled his gloves out of his pocket. Winter seemed to be chasing autumn's heels this year, he thought. Frost had come early and while it pinked Riza's cheeks in a way he mightily admired he'd still prefer they were out of it and into something warmer, preferable a shared bathtub with plenty of soap to make things slippery and interesting.

"We don't need to buy him a present. In fact he'd prefer it if we didn't. You know how he is about birthdays." Riza Hawkeye adjusted her scarf and peered into the shop windows they passed.

Mustang had always said that the best birthday present of all was a good bottle of scotch and good friends to help him drink it. In fact it had become a custom dating back to the old days in East City, everybody coming over to Roy's quarters and eating Xingese takeout and drinking scotch, playing chess and poker and simply 'at ease' with their commanding officer. Now that he was the leader of the nation those casual evenings were fewer and further between but cherished nonetheless. Ed nearly always made it a point to be home for Roy's birthday and sometimes they wanted private time to do unspeakable things to one another that damaged the upholstery of the much-abused red velvet _chaise-longue_ in Private Dining Room 5 of Madame Christmas' establishment.

Roy would be turning fifty this year—not that you could really tell it by his youthful appearance—and whatever they gave him had to be, well, something worthy of the event. Roy's personal staff had spent several long evenings arguing over beer about what would be appropriate. They might have asked Madame Chris or Edward—but wasn't this a gift from his team? In the end, Breda, Falman and Furey all turned to Colonel Hawkeye and Major Havoc and told them to take their cens and go get something, _anything_.

A watch? No. He still carried the silver pocket watch and his wrist sported a very handsome gold watch that Edward's son Maes had constructed for his 'second father' when he was fifteen, before he started blowing things up in his tiny workshop on the Hohenheim campus.

Cufflinks? Nina Elric had crafted a set from gold and lapis bearing Roy's alchemical array. Clever things, really—they opened and closed by clapping ones hands and gave off tiny sparks of blue light when activated

New brief case? Possibly. "We could always go down to that…place. Y'know? Spenser's Emporium? Where they sell those rubber-"

"—absolutely not!" Hawkeye shuddered. The very idea!

"—I meant for a gift certificate," Havoc clarified. "He and Ed might like-"

"—out of the question, Jean. Drop it."

Havoc shoved his hands disconsolately into his pockets and sighed. "Screw it, then. Let's get him a case of Stray Dog Extra Reserve. Not like it will go to waste. And not like we'll get to drink it with him, what with all that gala crap they have planned."

Hawkeye smiled a little. She had served Roy Mustang most of her life, and if she was sure of anything she was sure that the Fuhrer had his priorities straight. He would want his team with him, in private where he could roll up his shirt sleeves, slurp _lao mian _noodles with beef and peppers and eat steamed pork buns, pass the bottle 'round and relish down time with the closest thing he had to a family. "We'll see," was all she said, but the look on her face said 'he damned well better or else'.

"You getting' hungry?" He sniffed deeply. "Buy you a pizza and a pitcher."

A chorus of some romantic ballad was spilling out of the half opened door of an Aerugoan pasta joint. She glanced at her grinning lover and decided that she wouldn't mind splitting a bottle of 'A'go Red' and something crusty and cheesy and paved with black olives and mushrooms. "All right. Let me just take one more look…." She glanced quickly at the lighted window behind them, eyes flicking back and forth in search of something gift-worthy. It was Barnes and Walden, one of Central's largest book stores and a favorite haunt of the Elric brothers since they installed a coffee stand within its doors and didn't care overmuch if their customers spent time reading in the cozy overstuffed chairs scattered here and there over the sales floor. She didn't see any new alchemy or history titles, so she turned away, linked her arm through Jean's and headed in the general direction of mandolin music and the enticing aroma of basil and tomato gravy…

Then she _froze_. "Hey, what's with-"

Colonel Riza Hawkeye spun on her high heels and raced back to the window of Barnes and Walden, and for the first time in all the many hears he'd known her, Riza _cursed_.

"_Son of a BITCH!"_

He followed her pointing finger with his eyes. They locked onto an advertising poster bearing the beaming image of a sandy haired woman with a determined squarish jaw and the kind of tight smile that made friends count the silver after she'd been to supper and made men feel very protective of their testicles. His cigarette dropped out of his mouth. "Ohhhh…._fuck!"_

FIRE AND VICE: THE UNAUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY OF ROY MUSTANG

A BRAND NEW RELEASE FROM KELLEY WINCHELL

Best-Selling Author of "Muscle Men and Madwomen: The Armstrong Dynasty" and "Conduct Unbecoming: the Grumman Files"

Release Date: November 20th—Reserve Your Copy NOW!

…..TO BE CONTINUED…


	2. Chapter 2

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 2: POPPY, TINKER AND NITWIT

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

"Badges? I don't need a stinkin' _badge _to get on that flight. I'm an _ELRIC!"_

The girl at the East City Aerodrome ticket kiosk didn't even look up. "I'm sorry, sir. All alchemists requesting crew access to the _Eastern Star_ must apply by mail 30 days before the scheduled flight. I will be glad to book you a government class ticket to Central if you'll produce your identification card."

"I _told_ you. My bags are at the hotel. I caught a taxi straight from the station so I could make sure when the _Star_ was departing for Central in the morning-"

"—and when you produce your identification I will be glad to punch a ticket for a government fare. However, without proper government identification I can only issue you a general fare ticket—"

"—look, I'll have the damn ID when I check in. I've flown on this crate dozens of times—hell, my _brother_ designed it! Now, will you cut me some goddamn slack and—"

"-for a cost of 5,000 cenz. This covers up to maximum weight of 90 kilograms gross, including passenger and accompanying hand luggage. There will be a corresponding overage charge for any freight or checked baggage. Now, if you'd please step up on the scale, sir, I'll—"

"—take that scale and shove…_ohhh, damn it_. Forget it!" Ed snatched up his briefcase and stalked angrily away, cursing under his breath.

East City's weather in November may have been warmer than Central but the rain seeped just as quickly into Edward's shoes as he squelched through the puddles, his hair plastered to his cheeks and his glasses half fogged from the chill. It had been a long, long journey from the eastern kingdoms and the trans-desert railway took far too long. An airship would have been faster, but faster still would have been the flaming arrows launched by the Nihon Empire, still not altogether pleased with contact from the west, especially since Amestris was closely allied with Xing and Emperor Ling.

_Nihon. Koryō. Siem. Tonkin_. _Anam_. The Five Jewels, Ling called them, and at one point or another in their long bloody history Xing had been at war with all of them. Now, even as Roy labored to secure a lasting peace with Creta, Drachma, Ishbal and Aerugo, Xing was painstakingly working to reach non-aggression status with the Jewels. Xing was regarded…no, in truth, Xing _had_ been an oppressor. It had been the mother of these small kingdoms. Their languages were similar and the Five Jewels still used the Xingese _pinyin_ script. There were similarities in dress and cuisine and art-but in the last few centuries the aggression of the mother country had led to a certain ill feeling between the borders. For fifteen years Ling had made progress, often using Al as his ambassador, and when Nihon grudgingly invited a delegation of scientists to a summit at its Imperial Palace in the capital city of Aramashi-kyō Roy sent Edward as official envoy from Amestris.

And it was there in a _dojo_ in Aramashi-kyō that Edward Elric had the living shit beaten out of him by a nine year old boy. Little shaven-headed tyke, 'knee high to a hiccup', as Havoc would say, bowed politely to the strange golden-haired foreigner and proceeded to throw him across the room as if he were one of Nina's old rag dolls. Thinking his timing had simply been a little off, Ed faced his opponent again and got bounced again. And again. And again. The little boy hadn't even broken a sweat, his eyes like twin pools of calm, dark water.

Later the _dojocho_—the students called him a _sensei_—offered him bitter tea and rice and sour plums and pleasantly explained to Edward that his defeat had nothing to do with his skills and everything with his mind. "Your anger defeats you, Elric-sama. The moment you face an opponent with the heated blood of anger you are already beaten."

"Who says I was angry?" Ed growled at the master.

"My student could read your body language," the old man replied calmly. "" You are restless and driven, Likely to attack full on. There is much, perhaps too much, of the metal element in your nature. "

Ed shook his head. "You don't know the _half_ of it, Sir…."

That night as he soaked in a steaming bath, cool towel folded on his head, Ed looked up at the moon and said aloud, "damn it, Roy….you should be here. You should have seen that kid beat the snot out of me. You'd have died laughing."

He should have been at Ed's side watching the incredible fireworks in Koryō. Should have seen the impossibly delicate Siemese court dancers, towering spires of beaten gold adorning their heads and golden claws on their fingers long enough to make Lust envious. Should have been there when etiquette required that Ed eat that bowl of live, wriggling baby prawns and when the fresh octopus tentacles marinated in some fiery liquor crawled right up his chopstick and wrapped around his knuckles.

He should have smelled the delights of the spice market, watched the cool autumn moon rise over spindly pines with Ed in his arms while listening to the soft whisper of a bamboo flute. He should have seen the floating villages in Anam and Ed most certainly would have dared him to eat one of those fried spiders the old woman in Tonkin was hawking in the market, laughing at him when he was too intimidated to try a bite.

And the _ocean_. Alphonse had been right. There was nothing like it. Being unable to swim Ed didn't dare venture into its bitter waters but it was cool and smelled good and Ed wanted Roy to see it, would have stepped into its waters with him.

_Fifteen years_. He'd been spending half a year traveling. half a year at home with Roy, teaching at the Institute. Every season when he packed his bag he'd say, "When are you going to step down and go out on the road with me? The Parliament is pretty much running the show, y'know. And I know there's so much you want to see before you die." And Roy would tell him, "Eventually, Ed. When I know the country's stable and in good hands. I made a promise and I won't break it. But," he'd murmur into Edward's hair as he pulled his lover close, "I made a promise to you, too. We'll go. One of these days. I promise."

Now he was hanging his sodden clothes in the bath room of an East City hotel and even though his belly was rumbling with hunger he called home first.

"Hey, you!"

"Where are you?"

"I was late getting out of Resembool. Sara's birthday party, so I had to stay over last night. Can't believe she's fourteen. Already apprenticed herself to the local vet and she's studying up to work the lambing early this spring."

"How is Pinako?"

"She's….still with us. Sleeps a lot, although with five great grandkids storming all over the place I don't know how the hell she does it. Pitt keeps her comfortable and Winry promised to let us know if-when…._you know_."

"You taking the _Star_ in the morning?"

Ed frowned. "Yeah. The ticket agent was being a real pain in the ass, but I'll get there around five—_with my goddamn credentials_—and we should be there early afternoon."

"What are you doing tonight?"

Ed glanced at the window. The rain had finally stopped. "Oh, go get some supper,…hit a few bookstores—"

"-maybe call back around eleven for some recreational conversation?" Roy purred.

There was a moment of silence. "Oh _hell_ yes." His groin concurred, and his trousers became uncomfortably tight at the thoughts of the delights the night would hold, even if they were still hundreds of miles apart.

"Excellent. Now if you'll excuse me, I understand the 5:59 from Dublith has arrived. I've sent Colonel Hawkeye to the station to meet our daughter."

"Maes is too good to go meet his sister?" Ed demanded.

"The boy genius is currently locked in his research lab with the perennial 'Do Not Disturb Or It Will Be Your Ass' sign taped to the door."

"You've alerted the medics?"

"On call, as we speak. Hopefully he'll be out of traction by the time you get home."

Ed gritted his teeth. _That boy…_"If I come home and find out he's blown anything up," he threatened, "I'll put him in traction myself…."

###

"Fuhrer Mustang!" The newest secretary rounded the corner and burst into Roy's office as soon as the blast concussion rumbled away, leaving a smoking hole where a tiny chemistry lab used to be on the Hohenheim Institute campus. "Sir! There's been an accident…I'm so sorry sir, but your son….I think your son has been killed!"

_"Again?"_

Field binoculars in hand, Roy took a quick glance outside his office window. Several yards outside the blast impact he could see a blond figure in a smoking lab coat. It stirred. For a moment, Roy closed his eyes and gave silent thanks.

He turned briskly to the woman who was panting and trembling at having brought such horrible news to the leader of her country. "Alert the infirmary. If he doesn't report on his own feet in twenty minutes have him checked out."

_"SIR?"_

Sheska patted her shoulder. "You must be new around here…."

###

A high-buttoned shoe poked at the body in the smoking rubble. The young man didn't stir.

"He's dead all right." The voice was calm, cultured and now craftily conspiratorial. "_Excellent_. Aunt Riza, you grab his wallet while I get his car keys—"

A sooty hand shot up, grabbed a trim ankle and _yanked_—and Professor Nina Elric landed hard on her oh so elegant bottom. She swatted her brother with her umbrella. "You _shit."_

"Ah-ah-ah! Temper, temper, Nitwit! A lady of quality _never_ besmirches her lips with foul language—"

"-I'll besmirch your lips with my fist! Where the he—where the blazes were you? You were supposed to meet me at the station!" She righted herself and adjusted her hat. "You were going to buy me ice cream. Elycia's expecting us down at _Il Gattina_."

Her brother groaned a little as she yanked him into a sitting position. He felt for cracked ribs and was relieved that the only thing seriously injured was his pride. "Sorry, Nitwit! Got some fuel equations from Pyotir and-"

"—immediately started mucking around in your lair and blew the fu—_fudge_ out of all that new equipment and set your hair on fire."

"My hair? SHIT!" Maes Urey Elric slapped a frantic hand to the back of his neck. His heavy blond braid was singed but still intact save for a few inches at the end. "Don't scare me like that! Can't be a proper Elric male without a ponytail."

"Or a score of bandages and scars and, if you keep going at this rate, a few replacement automail limbs. Mom will brain you if you blow any of your bits off."

"Nahhh…but she'll charge me double and send the bill to Dad for being a bad influence—so let's not set our folks at each other's throats and forget it."

Nina reached up and gently straightened her brother's lab goggles. "Tinker, you're looking well—under all the scorch marks and the dirt, that is."

Her brother wasn't buying it. "If you're about to wheedle me into borrowing my car, you can forget it. You going up to see Uncle Roy, hoof it or take a cab."

She gave him her most beguiling smile. "Now, Tinker—"

"Now, nothing—keep your filthy alchemist's gloves off my baby! It's the only gasoline powered Elricmobile on the roads in the world-"

"—which certainly explains the rising death toll I've seen in the papers-"

"—it's going to be a standard, just you wait! Besides, I gotta clean up." He dug in his pocket and handed the surprised Colonel several bills. "Do me a favor and call a cab so Miss Snooty McElegant doesn't get her over priced skirts muddy or scuff her boots. Why the hell you can't wear a decent miniskirt like Mom did at your age-or is that too 19th century?"

"Gilded Age Revival is the latest fashion and you know it—"

"—and you've got enough steel in that stupid corset to bounce bullets off your boobs—if you had any, that is."

The umbrella whacked him again, a little harder this time. Nina stood up on her tiptoes, kissed her brother on the ear, whispered _"go fuck yourself!"_ and stomped off to find a cab, Hawkeye scurrying after her.

"Wait—you're going the wrong way!" The cab had made a u-turn and was heading back towards town.

"No we're not. There's something I want to show you, Nina. Something Major Havoc and I saw last night at the bookstore. Something that is going to upset your father very much."

"Which one?" Nina's eyes danced with mischief. " I have four of them, you know." Although Edward was her biological parent, Nina and Maes considered Roy, Sig Curtis and Pitt Renback as fathers, too. To avoid confusion, she referred to her stepfather as Uncle Pitt, Sig as Poppa, Edward as Dad or Daddy, and for some peculiar reason affectionately addressed the Fuhrer as Poppy. The one term she never used was 'father'. She knew her family's history in full, gruesome detail and knew Ed would find it very disturbing to be called by that moniker.

There was a long, thoughtful silence as the seventeen year old studied the flyer for the offensive tell-all in the bookstore window. "Right," Nina said decisively. "I suppose I'll have to kill her."

Cognac eyes darted towards the young prodigy. Anyone else might have been joking, but this was an Elric talking. An exceptionally brilliant and articulate Elric, but a young and hot tempered one in spite of all her elegant manners and outward maturity. She had the bearing of a young academic and a woman of fashion, but beneath it all she was keeping herself on a very tight leash, and instinctively wanted to shove her silk umbrella up Kelley Winchell's rectum point first—and then open it. "I hope you're joking."

Chestnut brows knit together. "Well, unless I want to add 'criminal genius' to my list of professional accolades, I've got to think of something. You'll notice when it's coming out."

"The Fuhrer's birthday. Same night as the gala."

"Tell me that's a coincidence." Her fingers tugged unconsciously at the cuffs of her fine kid gloves, artfully embroidered with her own alchemic array. "You've told Poppy?"

Hawkeye shook her head. "Havoc and I have been trying to find out more about this. I remember when her book on Fuhrer Grumman came out. "

"Shortly before he left office. Allegations of sexual misconduct and fraternization with young female officers-which Auntie Rebecca says was spot-on factual. What kind of dirt do you think she has on Poppy—I mean, that hasn't already come to the surface? Surely not that dreary rubbish about Uncle Maes. If Aunt Gracy's not upset, why the _fu_—devil—should anyone else give a _da_—curse—about it?"

"That's what I intend to find out," Hawkeye answered grimly.

A gloved finger lifted to correct her. "That's what _WE_ intend to find out…."

###

"Take it down."

"Sir?"

Edward adjusted his glasses and fixed the clerk with a cold topaz glare. "I said take it down." He jerked his chin in the general direction of the poster behind the cash register at Bounder's Books and News. "It's offensive."

The manager took a step forward, gently pushing his checkout clerk out of the way. "It's freedom of the press. One of the rights confirmed by Parliament shortly after Fuhrer Mustang was inducted into office. Freedom of the press and freedom of speech. Very essential amendments to the National Constitution of 1920—_agreed_, Mr, Elric?"

He was right, damn it. Take away the right to free speech and free press and you had—

-you had a _Military Dictatorship_. You had the Bradley Regime.

And Roy Mustang would be the last dictator of Amestris, if Roy really meant to follow through with his plans.

_"I'll pay you back when this country becomes a democracy!"_

Ed dug in his pocket. "Tell you what. I'll buy it off you for…520 cenz. How 'bout it?"

"We'll bring another one from the back."

"I figured you would."

"Still want to buy it?"

Twenty minutes later he was back at the hotel, shoveling sweet and sour chicken and fried egg rolls in his mouth as he thumbed through a copy of _"Conduct Unbecoming: the Grumman Files"_. It nearly made him gag. Not that Ed was any great judge of literature, but if the woman's insinuating prose was any oilier he could have lubricated an engine with it. "This isn't a book, it's a demolition job." Not to say that some of it…well…a lot of it might have been true, but still….Ed seriously doubted the old goat had gone as far as he was accused in the tome.

Worse than the sexual innuendo was the outright accusations that Grumman was complicit in the escape of the infamous Old Guard, the disjointed band of Bradley insiders who had made life hell for Roy and nearly assassinated him on at least three occasions. One of them had actually shot Roy, wounding him in the shoulder before Hawkeye blew the man's head to bits. Of course she had then gotten all traumatized over Roy being hurt and broke down and offered to resign and Roy had yelled at her so hard and so long that Dr. Knox had threatened to sedate him.

"Grumman let the Old Guard out free? Bullshit," Ed mumbled around a mouthful of rice. "I can't believe anybody with half a brain would actually buy this shit."

But buy it they did and read it they did-and the scandal that followed led to a Parliamentary Investigation, a military investigation-and an early retirement for General Grumman.

But it wasn't like there was much the people didn't know about Roy, was there? "Old man Edison leaked a lot to that worm-fucker Charles Foster of the _Central Times_—just before blowing half his head off." Roy had screwed with Maes Hughes. Roy was rumored to have had a breakdown after the war and used opiates and alcohol to kill the pain-yeah, there was a measure of truth, but nothing he had taken had been without medical supervision and he'd conquered his personal demons after his return to Ishbal.

"What the hell else IS there, that some bleach blonde busybody could use against Roy and make stick?"

He glared at the tattered remains of the poster which he had childishly ripped up and tossed in the waste basket. "Who _are_ you, lady?"

###

"_Where's my Wroy?"_

Roy glanced up from his paperwork. He smiled. "Right here where you left him," he answered gently, his face relaxing into an unguarded smile.

She rushed through the door, dignity forgotten, arms outstretched. He met her half way, folding her tightly against his chest as he had when she was tiny enough to curl up in his arms and listen to him read her bedtime stories. "Poppy…I missed you _so_ much!"

Roy pressed his cheek against her tumbled hair, hiding the emotion on his face. "It _was_ rather dull with you gone so long in Aerugo. I wasn't sure you'd be coming back. You seemed so fond of life at court and studying abroad."

"It's not home," Nina murmured against his shoulder. "It's not you and Daddy and Maes and everybody." There was a slight quaver in her voice and Roy drew back a little to study her face.

She was grown now, at least by Amestrian standards. How odd it seemed to him. For fifteen years they were still children, then miraculously a child turns sixteen and becomes a legal adult. _At least, they THINK they're grown,_ he reminded himself. His little girl had learned the hard way what it was like to have a prodigy's mind in a child's body. A faded scar on her forehead, covered by her hair, still made him angry, recalling the children in the school in Dublith who threw rocks at her in the school yard, calling this precious child a freak because of her exceptional intelligence. She was laughed at, shoved, tormented and spat on. The rock that caught her in the forehead was the final straw. Maes had gone into a blind fury, punching and kicking every kid in sight and screaming "_don't you touch my sister!"_. It took two teachers to hold Maes back and five to hold Izumi back when she saw her grandchild's bloody forehead. The wound was superficial—the damage went deeper than anyone ever knew.

Ed had been in Creta, and Winry was giving birth to Pitt's second child. Roy took matters into his own hands. With Izumi and Sig's blessing he brought Maes and Nina to Central. A private tutor was found, an alchemist named Judah who had once worked for a great family who had perished in a fire at their estate. Judah was blind, his face dreadfully disfigured, but he was gentle with the children, delighted to feed such eager little minds. He had met Edward and Alphonse in their younger days and in spite of the weight of his years he was glad to take the position. Ed, Izumi and Winry all agreed that, for the time being, Judah would be a fine tutor—however it was not the answer. "I don't want the children isolated," Winry admitted. "Isn't there a school somewhere for kids like ours?"

There hadn't been. Within a year there was. The Hohenheim Academy welcomed the academically and artistically gifted as part of the Institute and the Collegium of Alexandria, with children from five countries on the waiting list. Judah spent his last years as headmaster and was buried on the grounds, greatly loved and well remembered. The fact that he was sightless and scarred was a reminder to the students that outward appearances or physical ability were nothing to judge a person by. At the Academy, Nina and Maes and hundreds of children like them were nurtured and guided and mentored by the Institute's students, By the time the Elric children had graduated—Nina two years before her older brother—most of the old terrors were gone, although Nina acquired the habit of dressing and behaving older than her years. Now seventeen, she might have been dressed as elegantly as a woman in her twenties but the sight of her beloved 'Poppy' her affectations were forgotten and she clung to him like a child, lonely and so very very glad to be home.

"When are you making the announcement about the democracy initiative?"

Roy stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "The evening of that damnable gala they insist on throwing in my honor." He glanced at the clock. Maes was out of the infirmary, and Gracia and Elycia would be coming for supper in an hour. "It's time for a half-century of military dictatorship—however well meant—to come to an end. That's what I promised your father and Hughes. It's what I've worked for all my adult life."

"So what will you do when you retire, then?"

Roy blinked in surprise. "Retire?"

"You're the last appointed Fuhrer of Amestris. If the government is going to be civilian with elected officials, you'd have to step down, right? You can't go on running the country as the Fuhrer or everything you're telling the people will mean nothing…or hadn't that occurred to you?" She nibbled a ginger biscuit. "And Aunt Riza will have to find something else to do. After all, once you're retired, you and Daddy won't need her following you around for the rest of your lives, right?"

His Excellency, Fuhrer President Roy Mustang stared at his lover's child. For one of the few times in his life he was absolutely speechless.

…..TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. Chapter 3

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 3: THE NEEDLE AND THE DAMAGE DONE

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

At the check-in at the East City Aerodrome, Ed stepped on the scale, suitcase in hand. The bulk of his gear would arrive in two days by rail, but his travel kit and a large parcel containing family gifts were going with him aboard the _Eastern Star_. He'd already left a hefty travel trunk of loot at Granny's house. Part of his effort to heal so much of the hurt and anger between himself and the girl who had been virtually a sister to him was to treat Winry's second family as extensions of his own. He was genuinely fond of Winry and Pitt's brood, and in turn he was the much loved Uncle Ed who never forgot a birthday, let them eat ice cream for breakfast when they visited, and never went on a research trip without sending them generous mementoes of his travels.

The parcel he was carrying with him contained gifts for his own family, including a very precious antique that he was bringing back especially for Roy. _Technically_ the legality of owning it might have been a little dodgy, but it had been gifted to Edward and from the moment Edward had admired it he knew that Roy would cherish it.

A voice yanked him out of his reverie. "You're fatter than you look." A polished nail tapped on the scale's display. "I'm going to have to charge you an overage fee."

"FAT?" Ed's head jerked around to face the check in clerk. He lifted his hand luggage and pointed at it. "I've got _this_, y'know?"

She weighed the bag. She weighed Ed, minus his overcoat. "You still weigh more than you look to weigh. " She pulled out a small, well thumbed pamphlet and turned to the paper clip chart that read 'Average Height/Weight'. "According to our guide, the upward limit of weight for a man who is-how tall?"

Ed pulled himself up proudly. He'd finally stopped is growth spurt around the age of 24. Consequently, the stubborn twig of hair that he once coaxed to bob ridiculously above his forehead wasn't quite so…_erect_…these days, nor the soles of his shoes quite so thick. _"One hundred eighty-five point five centimeters,"_ he told her as proudly as a man among his fellows might brag of his endowments below the waist.

"Hmmm…the chart says your weight should range up to 87 kilos for your height. I'm showing you're over the line by quite a few kilos. Odd. You don't _look_ overweight…"

"Fuckin' outrageous! First thing I'm gonna do when I get home," Ed growled to the pilot, "is petition the Amestrian Airship and Aeronatics Regulatory Board for special weight allowances for automailers".

"There isn't one," one of the alchemists on the crew pointed out.

"Ha!" Ed's grin was toothy and malicious. "There will be when I'm done!"

The pilot chuckled in sympathy and nodded towards the jump seat where Ed could strap himself down for lift-off. He had personally apologized to Edward, signed Ed off on the flight crew list and informed the gate agent in future they would have a list of approved VIP passengers that were to be admitted aloft, badge or no badge. "And Professor Elric and Professor Alphonse will always be at the top of the list. We wouldn't be in the air today without them! Charge them fare? Why, we pay _them_ licensing fees!"

They even threw in a box lunch, a small pillow and a blanket to use along with the apology and, since it was early, a cup of coffee and a share of the crew's fresh donuts for breakfast. Travel was much nicer now that vacuum flasks were around to keep the coffee nice and hot. "Bearing bad weather we should be there by one-ish, thereabouts," Ed was told. "Have to stop for a cargo drop about half-way and take on some passengers."

"No problem," Ed shrugged. "Beats the hell out of a train ride." The coffee, thankfully, was not made by the Military, and after he dusted the sugary donut crumbs from his coat he pulled the blanket around, leaned against the bulkhead and closed his eyes….

"_This'll probably shorten my life…but it's the only way…"_

He clapped his hands and laid them on his own flesh as the rusty metal bar that impaled him was swiftly yanked from his body. _I am a Philosopher's stone of one soul…._

It had worked. At least, it had worked long enough to keep him from bleeding to death. And when he was cognizant enough of his surroundings after the horrible repair surgery in the back alley clinic the chimeras took him to, he pulled himself out of his pajamas to pee into the tin urinal the provided by his bed….

….and noticed _hair._ Yellow as the stuff on his head. Not much but more than the sparse bit that had been there before. There was fuzz on his cheeks too, so pale you couldn't really see it without a magnified mirror—which also revealed a face that had lost the last of its boyishness.

A young man was staring back at him. A _taller_ young man whose voice was a fraction deeper, whose jaw was a bit squarer, whose muscles were more defined, and whose dick was…

Ah. Yes. About that. "Grow, damn you!" he'd order his member. It listened—a little—but compared to what Al was slinging around after he'd gotten his body back Ed was pissed off. It wasn't _tiny_…but it was clear that he wasn't taking after his father, at least not in this respect.

But he had performed the transmutation, had survived and appeared to have passed rapidly through puberty. "_This'll probably shorten my life."_ The real question was this: _How much time do I have left?_

"You could live to be a hundred," Izumi told him honestly. "You could die tomorrow. Does it matter, Ed? Focus on the here and now."

He'd lived long enough to see his children reach adulthood at sixteen. He'd lived long enough to be hailed as a living legend—a heroic alchemist, brilliant inventor, aeronaut, lecturer—with Sheska's help he had a half-dozen scholarly works in libraries throughout the known world. He'd lived long enough to achieve a hard-won peace with Winry. He'd made peace with his own past mistakes. He had a stable, loving relationship with a good man. And there was no knowing how much time he had left. There was much he wanted to do—so much yet undone.

"Life's uncertain, Dad," Maes had told him over a spoonful of mocha almond fudge ripple ice cream with hot caramel sauce, which he could eat by the hour and never gain an apparent ounce. " You could kick off at the table at dinner before Sebastian serves the coffee and he'd have to fish your glasses out of the soup. You'd be all corpsified and gross and everybody would lose their appetites. It could happen. So screw it. Life's a crapshoot, Dad, so you might as well eat dessert _first_, okay?"

Without looking down at his hand, he began to turn and turn the golden ring on his right middle finger, the one with the inexpertly etched salamander array on it that a sixteen year old alchemy apprentice had carved under the watchful eye of the original flame alchemist. He thought about that boy, now grown to splendid manhood and more attractive as the years went by.

He came to a conclusion, one he had tumbled over and over in his mind for the past decade and a half. "All right, damn it," he said aloud. "Time to make an honest man out of that arrogant, morally depraved, snide son of a bitch." He grinned. "Ought to make the fucker wear a goddamned white dress…"

###

Roy Mustang, for one of the few times in his life, was absolutely dumbstruck.

"…_you and Daddy won't need her following you around for the rest of your lives, right?"_

He had no intention of retiring from public service. _Ever._ He had every intention of dying in harness, an old warhorse who served his motherland to his last breath. Oh, of course, if he became infirm or senile he would have to retire, but there was no other reason that could force Roy Mustang to step down from his life-long watch over Amestris. Even if he wasn't at the helm, ruling from the top, he would find other ways to serve. He'd put on that uniform at sixteen. He intended, if at all possible, to be buried in it.

With the uniform came responsibility, and one of those responsibilities was the dignified Colonel in her forties who had watched his back since his days at Eastern Command. She had stuck to his side like burr to a dog's tail. She was his shadow and his conscience. She had shaped her entire existence around him, filled her world with him to the exclusion of virtually all else, including the long suffering Havoc who still held out some small hope of settling down with her and raising a family even after all these years.

"I don't know how you're going to handle that mess, Poppy," his daughter told him seriously. "I mean, I love Auntie Riza, but I think some part of her still believes that you and Daddy are just some…I don't know…some _guy_ thing. Something you're going to get over, like when Uncle Maes married Aunt Gracia and—"

"I'd like to know where the hell you came up with such a ridiculous idea," Roy snapped.

His daughter cast him a knowing smile over the rims of her glasses. "_Woman's intuition_, Poppy. Women just sense these things—however unscientific that may sound."

Roy gave her a cool, appraising look. "I can still remember when you were peeing on me and smearing peas in your hair. It wasn't that long ago, so you can cut the 'women's intuition' crap right now."

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Negative." A sudden uneasiness in his gut told him otherwise. "This topic doesn't merit further discussion." Rising swiftly he adjusted his high collar and smoothed his glossy hair back from his forehead, revealing the few faint threads of silver at his temples. I'll see you at supper." He gestured towards her elegantly corseted form, cramped and laced and brocaded with an inch of Nina's life. "Try to wear something a little less…armor-plated."

He nearly knocked Hawkeye down as he hurried from the room. She had been right outside the door, no doubt overhearing every word. Nina caught a quick glimpse of Hawkeye's drained, stricken expression just before the door closed at Roy's heels.

###

When Nina began her alchemy training Hawkeye had told her all about Master Berthold and the tattoo'ed array she still carried on her back. "I asked the Fuhrer—he was just a major back then—to burn it off my skin…to free me from the burden of carrying such dangerous knowledge."

" Can I see it?"

With great reluctance, Riza Hawkeye excused herself and returned, modestly draped, her pale skin exposed only enough for the girl to examine the burn scars and the blackwork that still covered much of her body from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. "Guess it would have killed you to burn it all," Nina whistled, shaking her head. "Looks like Poppy got the key parts of the diagram. It's not useable. Thanks for letting me see it."

Later, Nina suddenly put down her teacup and stared intensely at her older friend. "You could have said no."

Hawkeye blinked. "What?"

"That," Nina gestured towards Hawkeye's back, "is _wrong_. I know many alchemists get themselves tattooed—but you're not an alchemist. You let your father _do_ that to you?" Hawkeye lowered her head and nodded. "That's….all those needles…the size of that array…how could he do that to you? My daddy would kill anybody who tried to hurt me like that—if Poppy didn't kill them first. Or I would have run away, I don't know." Her brows knit together and she shook her dark head. "Why did you let him do it?"

She was naked, prone upon an improvised work bench, at an age when no young girl is eager to show her body to anyone. It was not for any medical reason. It was not for the eyes of a lover, even if she had thought of such a thing. She was there because her father told her to do it and in the House of Hawkeye Master Berthold's word was Law.

A tiny metal comb, needle sharp, soldered to a lengthy rod. A stick of bamboo, curved, its tip split into tiny razor-sharp points. A metal rod, engraved with alchemic glyphs and formulae, even as the table she was laid upon, her hair shorn off high to expose her vulnerable neck and only a modesty drape covering her from the small of her back downwards. There was a coarse towel beneath her and another rolled under her forehead. One absorbed her sweat and her blood and droplets of ink. The other absorbed her tears.

Master Berthold sponged her back with alcohol. "No use getting infected and ruining my life's greatest achievement," he said to himself. He had already traced the grand array in ink on her skin and now he would make it truly indelible.

Using sure, quick strokes he laid the needle-comb against her flesh, its points freshly dipped in ink. The metal rod was tapped against the handle that held the piercing device, driving the points in and in and in. It burned and stung and he could not see her screw up her eyes to keep the tears back as he switched back from the straight comb to the curved bamboo and to the agonizing pen of clustered points that allowed him to inscribe the formulae that he recited aloud as he worked:

"_This is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth:-  
As below, so above; and as above so below. With this knowledge alone you may work miracles."_

Tap…taptapTAPta-taptap…_tap_. "Don't move," her father warned her. She was feeling sick, lightheaded.

"_And since all things exist in and emanate from the ONE Who is the ultimate Cause, so all things are born after their kind from this ONE. The Sun is the father, the Moon the mother; the wind carried it in his belly. Earth is its nurse and its guardian.  
It is the Father of all things, the eternal Will is contained in it."  
_"I think I'm going to be sick, Father," she moaned softly. "Please, may I-"

The master laid a cautioning hand on her shoulder. "I need you to stay still." The needle moved again.

"_Here, on earth, its strength, its power remain one and undivided._

_Earth must be separated—"_ he blotted up the beads of bright blood that oozed down her side, along the curve of a breast that was still budding. He would have preferred to wait until she was grown, but the searing pains in his chest warned him that he was running out of time.

Tap..taptaptaptap…tapTAPtap. He reached for the stylus again.

"_,,,separated from fire, the subtle from the dense, gently with unremitting care.  
It arises from the earth and descends from heaven; it gathers to itself the strength of things above and things below.  
By means of this one thing all the glory of the world shall be yours and all obscurity flee from you—"_

"Father…_please_…"

"I need you to be _still_," he commanded. "Don't make me tell you again."

"I'm about to be sick…I have to—"

He twitched aside the covering towel and the one beneath her sweaty face. There was a slit in the table. He shoved a pail under it with his foot. "_Here_, then. Do it and be done. There's no time to waste!"

She heaved and choked, her body clenching pitifully. She began to sob.

He firmly pushed her back down. "Enough, now.' He cleared his throat, bent to her skin and the burning began anew.

"_-It is power, strong with the strength of all power, for it will penetrate all mysteries and dispel all ignorance. By it the world was created. _

_From it are born manifold wonders, the means to achieving which are here given."_

It took seven days under a waxing moon.

When it was done she could no longer rise unassisted from the table. "Well done," he told her. "Now my life's work will be preserved for the ages." He had hired a woman from town to coat her back with salve and bandage it lightly. Only the clink of coins in her pocket could persuade her to stay at her task. Only her fear of this madman kept her silent. "Goodness, if he would do such a dreadful thing to his own child, who knows what else he is capable of!"

By the time the seven days of torment were done, the young woman who first laid down upon the towel covered table was not the same one who lay mutely on her own bed, face down on the cool sheets, her back stinging and scabbing up, eventually healing cleanly.

If she couldn't trust her father, she resolved, she would find _someone_ in the world she could trust.

In the end, it was a boy soldier, not much older than she was, with a pale baby face and naive dreams of making the world a better place. He was soft-spoken, gentle with her in her grief and buried her father with genuine concern and affection. His heart, it seemed, was great enough to forgive even a monster like the man who had used his own child's flesh as the canvas for his own ambition.

"_Will you follow me?"_

"_I will follow you into hell, Sir."_

And so she had, for a quarter of a century. She gave him her loyalty, obedience and duty as a soldier. He rewarded her with a Colonel's commission.

She gave him her days and, in the privacy of her own heart she spent her nights dreaming of him, yearning for him, aching for him. He rewarded her by taking another man into his bed. And now, it seemed, he was planning on just throwing her away. She'd known…she'd hoped…one day Roy Mustang would….

But he didn't. And now, she realized, he wouldn't. And once again she was sick at her stomach and the scars beneath her back seemed to burn once again as if they had never really healed…

###

It wasn't about politics-at least, not in the past. Kelley Winchell had no axe to grind, not personally.

There was generally no vendetta, any more than there had been with Grumman or the Armstrongs or anyone else she'd written about. She was a reporter and she had uncovered a story and it would probably be a best seller. That was about the extent of it.

This book was different.

Fifteen years ago a former newsman named Frank Archer did time in jail as an accessory to espionage. He'd gotten out and brought his old grudges with him. There was dirty laundry and he didn't mind airing it at Roy Mustang's expense.

Fifteen years ago an Old Guard terrorist named Edison had been tried and sentenced to death for the murder of a bakery owner and a free lance reporter named Charles Foster-and conspiring to assassinate Fuhrer Mustang. Edison was gone—his private journals were not. While working on the Armstrong expose she'd met a man who'd met a man who said he knew a man who had the journals. She'd risked the entire book advance payment to procure those notebooks and years to find someone who could translate the encryptions. She might have brought it all to light sooner but when she'd heard that Mustang would be celebrating his fiftieth birthday in office and that there would be plenty of press coverage—well, why not?

Before, it was all about money, pure and simple. She wasn't in anyone's back pocket, like the late Charles Foster had been. She'd become the doyenne of tell-all biographers because it paid well. If she'd been interested in accuracy she'd have gone to work for the _Times_. Her books sold and sold well and gave the punter on the street a sense that he knew the inside story on the most famous men and women of the day. Not to mention knocking the mighty off the catbird seat—as she had done with former Fuhrer Grumman—was exhilarating.

This book was different. This one was going to be the one to push her over the top. The single most popular seated Fuhrer in modern history was a man who was, as he presented himself, an open book. Nearly everybody knew he was raised by a notorious madame. They knew that during the Ishballan Rebellion he had used alchemy to destroy entire cities—that women and children were melted into puddles of fat and charred bone at his hands. He didn't apologize for the former and had shown open contrition for the latter.

What he _didn't_ talk about was The Promised Day and what he knew about it.

And, thanks to Edison's journals, she had the truth of it—of the Bradley assassination conspiracy, the Doll Army, the experiments of Lab 5, the chimeras and the Philosopher's Stones. Roy Mustang had been the single most powerful alchemist ever sanctioned by the State as a living weapon. Who'd have imagined that beneath that suave, elegant façade was concealed the twisted soul that orchestrated the near-annihilation of the Amestrian race?

This book would break ground and change the world. And when the truth finally came out, they would hang him. Not that she especially wanted to see him killed, but it was history and he had dirtied his hands and everyone was blinded by his charm and good looks and worthy deeds. They had all conveniently forgotten the day of the eclipse when every man, woman, child—every living thing in the country—_died_….for the sake of Mustang's lust for immortality.

On November 20th the truth would come out, and Roy Mustang's fiftieth birthday, if there was any justice in this world, would probably be his last…

…..TO BE CONTINUED…


	4. Chapter 4

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 4 : "A MODEST PROPOSAL"

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Sheska didn't drink as a rule, especially during the lunchtime planning meetings for the gala. Chef Ramsay always sent up a cooler with iced long necks whenever there was a power lunch, since most of Havoc's power lunches were fueled by cold brew, grease, salt and carbohydrates as much as brain power. Sheska didn't want to drink in meetings because it made her feel _wicked_. It made her want to say things that, well, nice girls weren't supposed to say and played hell with her better judgment. Which, of course, was why Havoc requested the beer in the first place. If they could get Sheska even slightly boiled they could talk her into agreeing to damn near anything.

"Nice girls don't drink at staff meetings. Only," she sighed as she reluctantly accepted another cold one from Kane Fuery, "I'm not a _girl_ anymore, am I? I'm an _old maid_!" Her eyes began to tear up again. "I'm an old maid who's about to turn _forty…_and…and…what's the biggest worry in my life? Not a _husband_. Not _kids_. I'm stressing myself," she wailed dramatically, "over a finding a costume to fit some blonde bimbo who wears a…a…"

"An E-cup!" chorused the men in the meeting room, echoed enthusiastically by Major Havoc, whose eyes were a glazed as the pile of donuts over by the coffee urn.

"Sheska, I don't think you understand…this is _history_," he told firmly. "This isn't just any blonde bimbo-_this_ is Gladys Turlough."

Sheska sighed. Given the choice she would have preferred investigating the horrors of Laboratory 5 for General Hughes in the old days rather than getting roped into organizing this birthday tribute for the Fuhrer. She had everything she needed , all neatly organized in her brief case. "Too bad I forgot to pack a mop and a bucket for all the _drooling_ around here," she shook her head. "I…I give up. You guys have shot down every idea I've come up with. The Philharmonic-"

"-_boooooorrrring!_" Havoc chimed in.

"-the Youth Symphony and Choir-"

"—that would be quite appropriate for the spring festival," Falman commiserated, "but a fiftieth birthday calls for a more sophisticated offering—"

"—an evening of jazz? Mustang would enjoy that—"

"—a lot of the radio listeners wouldn't. Too progressive—"Fuery fretted.

"Sheska, this may be Mustang's birthday, but it's a benefit. We gotta give the people what they want…and the people want _boobs_." Havoc made a generous cupping gesture towards his chest. "Beautiful women. Chorus lines with lotsa leg. And _boobs_. Gladys Turlough isn't called the Ice Cream Blonde for nothing!"

Sheska slipped off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. "And _why_ do they call her The Ice Cream Blonde?"

Havoc's expression became reverent, like that of a Letoist kneeling in the stained glass splendor of the old cathedral in Liore. "Because they're like…two…_perfect_ scoops of the most luscious, creamy vanilla you can imagine….and all you wanna do all day is _lick 'em_." The silence that followed was punctuated by a discreet _ahem_ from the corner where Hawkeye was taking notes. "Well? Am I right, guys? Mustang may live with Ed and all but he still appreciates some esthetically pleasing cleavage…and legs."

"I've heard she's temperamental," Hawkeye cut in coolly. "The last thing we need is a performer who could be difficult on the night of the gala." The assembled men looked uneasy. Gladys Turlough was a fixture on the entertainment pages of the _Central Times_—and would have been on the police blotter had her agent not spread buckets of cens around to keep her escapades out of the public eye. Chris Mustang had even barred her from her supper club—and that was coming from a woman who staff still occasionally rented by the hour. Her fans called her 'high spirited'. Chris Mustang called her 'hell in high heels".

"All right. If she's officially in the gala, who's going to keep her out of trouble?"

"—before we get her into the cake, that is," Havoc clarified.

A lone figure at the end of the table had been listening with quiet attention. He was a late-comer to the proceedings, having arrived in from Creta only three days before.

He rose, adjusted his silk scarf and gestured politely for silence. "Gentlemen-and ladies?" He bowed politely to Sheska and Hawkeye. "I'll assume responsibility for Miss Turlough. She will be at the theatre on time, appropriately dressed, sober, and ready to serenade."

Hawkeye looked suspicious. "You can guarantee this?"

The newcomer offered her a boyish grin that was sincerity personified. "I give you my word, Colonel Hawkeye. The Ice Cream Blond will be…_in good hands_."

The Colonel thought she heard Havoc mutter something under his breath that sounded like _'lucky bastard'_. She ignored him and nodded to the younger man in the aeronaut's scarf.

"Thanks, Alphonse."

###

"You're back. _Alive_."

"Sorry to disappoint you." Ed slid into the back seat of the staff car that came to the Aerodrome to pick him up. "Why'd they send _you_? "

"Your son's car—"

Ed cringed. "Lemme guess—he tried out a new fuel mix and it blew the engine?"

"Blew it half way across the garage. Your daughter finds that very amusing. She arrived yesterday and they've been fighting over that old wreck since she got here. If you weren't such a cheapskate you'd buy Nina her own car."

"Nina can buy her own like Maes did. There's a reason my kids aren't spoiled little bastards. Even you have to admit that, Ruby."

"Yeah. They turned out all right in spite of you. Must have been Mrs. Curtis' influence," she grudgingly admitted. "Hope you know all hell's about to break loose around here, right?"

"Define 'hell'. I've seen a couple of 'em in my life. If it doesn't involve a river of blood, crazy assed nut jobs with Philosopher's Stones, would-be gods or homunculi, I can probably deal with it, Ruby."

She glanced at him through the rear-view mirror. "Something called _democracy_. You ever heard of it?"

"Before my time," Ed shrugged, "but it looks good on paper. Gonna be ratified on New Year's Day. Mustang's gonna stick his dick out on the line and let the people vote him back into office."

"Yeah? Well, lemme give you a news flash, Little Man. The Big Guy with the Big Ego better not trip over his own dick. I got a feeling he's not going to just waltz right back into the Command Office, in uniform or out."

Ed snorted with laughter. "Load of crap and you know it! I mean, Mustang's the most popular president this nation's had, long as anybody can remember. It's not like anybody would be stupid enough to run against him!"

There was something about her smug silence that gave Edward a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a couple of miles, he blurted out, "Do you know something I don't know?"

"Usually."

"Awww, c'mon, Ruby! I know you'd like to cut my head off and spit down my neck, but…you've done okay since Roy's been in office. Right? You know he's the best man for the job!"

She stopped the car and turned around, giving him an appraising look that made his hackles rise. "Maybe the best man for the job is a _woman_, Ed. Ever think of that?"

###

Grumman's birthday gift came early. "Getting on now, son. Hoping I might die in the bed of a beautiful young woman, Roy, so open this when you get it. Regards, Grumman."

It was wrapped in an archival envelope and was so old and so brittle Roy had to lay the old book flat on a table to read it. It was one of the only surviving translations of _The Theory of The Democratic Republic_ by the Xerxian philosopher Cleisthenes, whose works had been preserved in the Great Library in Xing. Far from being a dry read, Roy found himself chuckling over the ancient's sharp edged wit, particularly a passage that read _:"It is sensible to conclude that one useless man is called a shame and a disgrace. Two useless men are called a Council of Law, and three or more useless men are called a Parliament. It is the unenviable task of the President of a Democratic society to unite such useless and self-serving souls into a Body of Government worthy of the people it presumes to serve—however under the best of circumstances that task can be equated to the herding of cats."_

In his mind he silently lifted a glass to the old man, now confined to a wheelchair and prone to pinching any woman hired to nurse him. _Old goat…he'll be missed when he goes_. _Who knows what he might have accomplished if he'd stayed in office as long as I have…_

Below him, the Parliament rumbled like some uneasy beast. This was the closing session before Harvest and Solstice—they would reconvene after New Year's. A motion had been put forward to hold a national election for the presidency, with the permanent retirement of the military position of Fuhrer. To Roy's relief the arguments may have been sharp but they were mercifully brief. After three weeks of simmering tempers it was being put to a vote. "You _do_ understand what you stand to lose here, Fuhrer?" the Minister for the North had asked him bluntly. "If candidates who meet the requirements are found, you may find yourself in a close election. You may even lose."

Roy refused to rise to the bait. "Then l lose. That's the way democracy works. The people of Amestris have been treated like sheep for decades. Fuhrer Grumman made the first steps to giving our people back the right to vote for their president. I'm completing a promise to make this country a democracy, pure and simple."

They would adjourn to vote in about fifteen minutes. Down on the floor, seated among the floor runners and interns and pages he could see an elegantly dressed young woman—too young, really, to wear such peculiar Aerugoan fashion, but in spite of all that she stuck out like a pearl among pebbles, gazing up at Roy with steady affection and support. Her brother, a bit grubby from his workshop, was up in the gallery, his amber eyes intent, one blond eyebrow cocked at half mast as if the hubbub below him was both amusing and exasperating.

When a tall figure slipped in the side door and grabbed a seat beside the overdressed young lady, Roy could not suppress a smile. He saw Maes dart out of the gallery, moments later joining his family on the floor, hooking one long arm affectionately around his sister, the other over his father's shoulder. He gave Roy an impudent thumb's-up.

Roy rapped the gavel for attention. "Ladies and gentlemen of the assembly—we will reconvene in fifteen minutes to vote on the motion for open election for the office of the President. We are adjourned."

"How much time do we have?" Ed demanded when he let Roy come up for a breath from a ravenous kiss that was about six months overdue.

"Not enough for what I want to do to you." After the better part of half a year, Ed couldn't have arrived at a worse time. He had stopped off at Rose Hill to clean up and change before heading to the Parliament and it was a test of Roy's self-discipline not to drag the younger man over to his desk, flip him on his back and chew the zipper right out of his lover's trousers. Thankfully he was wearing his formal uniform, which provided some modest concealment of an erection that, Roy feared, was draining all the blood out of his head. "Damn, you look good." His eyes scanned the familiar features. There was something in Edward's expression that filtered through the hunger and joy of holding his lover again. He drew back a fraction and held Edward at arm's length. "Talk to me. I know that look."

_Damn. He knows me too well_. "Nothing that can't wait—and nothing about you and me or the family. Okay?" Ed shook off Roy's grip and yanked him close again. "But I'm damn glad to be back…and I've got a special present for you. Have to give it to you when everybody's at dinner tonight." He colored, looking suddenly awkward as he had been in the first days of their relationship.

Relieved, Roy gave his lover a slow smile, full of innuendo. His mouth brushed the rim of Edward's ear, warm breath doing utterly unfair things to Edward's nervous system, including raising goose-bumps on his arms, raising the hair on the back of his neck, accelerating his pulse and indecently tenting out the front of his trousers. "I'm afraid what _I've_ got for you isn't appropriate for a family audience." A soft nip right under his ear and Edward began to sweat. "It involves vintage champagne, a Xingese silk scarf and a stick of fresh butter. Oh…and perhaps some restraints…just to be sure you don't run off on another trip before I'm done with you."

Ed's pupils dilated. "Did you say _restraints-_?"

"-and _butter_. Yes…I did. You were very…_very_…selfish to go off so long…I couldn't even speak to you and the letters took ages to reach me. I've been deprived, Ed, and when I get deprived…I get _depraved_."

"Is that a threat, old man?"

'It's a promise."

'I was hoping you'd say-ohhh, what the fuck is that?" Somebody was knocking on the door. Ed glanced at his watch. "Shit—it's not even quarter past—"

"Dad! Uncle Roy! The press is out here! You guys might want to pull yourselves together and come on out before they let themselves in!" Maes warned through the closed door.

_"Fuhrer Mustang! Sir! _If the vote is defeated, what will you do?"

"We'll address that as the final tally warrants-"

"—Sir! Are aware that there are already a number of public figures who are discussing the outcome—that may risk running against you in the new year?"

"That's commendable, and I wish them good luck and a fair fight on the campaign trail…"

"Fuhrer! Is your family rallying around you because you are concerned that your motion is going to be defeated?"

"My family has gathered around because the holidays are coming up, as well as my birthday, and we intend to spend time together-"

"—speaking of your birthday, Sir—were you aware of the new biography Kelley Winchell has written about you that's due out on your fiftieth birthday?"

Roy froze for an instant. He glanced at Edward. _That's what's got him upset. As if the bleatings of a two-bit hack could do me any harm,_

Then again—it was that same two-bit hack who wrote an expose about Grumman that eventually led to him resigning and appointing Roy to take his place.

Damn it.

He flashed the cameras his most winning smile. "I'm afraid I don't have a great deal of time to catch up on _popular fiction_. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return for the vote…"

###

Roy was too exhausted to be jubilant. He wasn't even particularly interested in the splendid family supper Ramsay had put before them. Elycia and Gracia had joined them, and Havoc, Hawkeye, Breda and Dr. Knox rounded out the crowd around the table. Ed and Roy sat close together, with Maes and Nina on either side "to keep you two from flipping bread rolls at each other," Ed teased. When Ramsay offered strawberry tart or cream puffs with caramel sauce, Roy murmured a suggestion that Ed should opt out on the sweets. "We'll have dessert _later_." It was just loud enough and suggestive enough for Maes to hear it and he made a great show of leaping up and putting his hands over his sister's ears, declaring that Nina was obviously _far_ too innocent to hear such randy talk. "That's not what she said in her letters!" Elycia blurted out then turned scarlet when her friend shot her a killing look. "Remind me to send you to a Letoist convent so you'll stay out of trouble," Ed mock-growled at his daughter, who broadly protested that she always behaved like a lady. "Yeah, pure as the driven slush, that one!" his son hooted, earning himself a rap on the top of the head from his father's knuckles.

Presently, Ed tapped his wine glass with his spoon and called for attention. Roy noted that odd, flustered expression was back again. He seemed to be struggling with something and Nina, sensing her father's mood, reached past Roy to lay her hand over his. "Daddy? What's the matter?"

Ed stared down at his plate. "Nothing the matter. It's just…kinda strange. Not used to…y'know…I don't…" He took in a deep breath. His eyes darted to Roy's. "Laugh at me and I'll fuckin' kill you."

Everyone went silent. Roy nodded slowly. "I give you my word." He glanced at Maes, who nodded. "None of us will. If you've got something to say, just say it."

"Okay…okay. I….wanted to say this in front of everybody, 'cause…y'know I don't talk. About. These…._things_. Y'know?" He gnawed his lower lip , struggling for the right words and it would have been downright comical if Ed hadn't clearly seemed so uncomfortable. "But…all these years you were just…right out there. I mean," his eyes darted across the table to Gracia, "when all that stuff came out about you and Hughes, you didn't deny anything that was truth. You didn't deny me or tell me to hide…or make excuses or y'know, find some woman to…y'know…cover for us. President of the fuckin' nation and you had the balls to dance with me in public, and stand there with Maes and Nina and say to the world 'hey, these are my kids and I'm proud of them'. Damn, that took guts. And now you're about to risk everything you've worked for—everything that matters to you-to keep a promise you made to me and to Hughes to make this country a democracy….to give us the rights we handed over to the Fuhrers in the last century…I just wanted to say…I'm …I'm in this with you. All the way. And…_ohhh hell!_: Roy's hand covered Edward's and gripped it tightly. "You told me you'd never mention it until I was ready. _If_ I was ever ready. So…I just wanted to say….let's go ahead and get a couple of rings and make this official. Let's do this right. Okay?"

Roy didn't answer for a long time. When he finally looked at Edward there was a certainty in that steady dark gaze that didn't even require an answer—but answer he did. "I won't ask you if you're sure," Roy said slowly. "You wouldn't ask me if you weren't. I am curious why you wanted to ask me in front of everyone instead of when we were alone."

Ed shook his head. "I—I knew you'd believe me if I risked making an ass of myself." He glanced at Nina, then Maes. "And it affects their lives too, even if they are grown…_mostly_."

Roy placed his hands firmly on Ed's shoulders. While they never made a secret of their relationship they were seldom if ever demonstrative around anyone other than the kids, who had been invited into their hugs nearly all their lives. He was about to speak when Nina touched his arm gently. "Poppy…it's okay. It really is." On the other side, Maes gave his father's back a playful shove. ""Go'wan…if you can't kiss him in front of _us_, where else?"

A scarred hand slid from Ed's shoulder to curl around the back of his neck. 'I'd say its about damn time," Roy answered simply before pulling his long time lover close enough for a reasonably chaste but lingering kiss that held the promise of better things to come when they were in private. And when they embraced their children were cheering loudly and hugging them both, Nina's assumed sophistication evaporating as she broke down and wept, alternately kissing both of her fathers and even her brother's cheek as well. Elycia jumped out of her seat and joined them. "Uncle Roy," she whispered in his ear, "Daddy would be so happy…I just know it. He was always telling you to get married, wasn't he?"

Ed grinned up at Hughes' little girl, now all grown up and running Il Gattina on her own. "Yeah, but he was always telling Roy to get a wife!"

Roy didn't miss a beat. "You'll look lovely in white satin and a veil.'

_"What the fuck?"_ Ed scowled and raised his fist. "You'd have to shoot me and stuff my dead ass in a dress."

"Tinker can be the flower girl," Nina teased.

"And I'll get the flowers right off your grave, Nitwit!" her brother growled back.

Alphonse Elric was always keen in his observation of others, a trait he developed when he had no body and all the sleepless time in the world to roll things over and over in his mind—a habit he'd never lost. The candles on the table were above eye level, and when Roy pulled Edward into his arms amid the clapping and cheering he saw a queer expression shadowing Riza Hawkeye's face for just a second before it was willed away. The light from the candles flickered on her cognac brown eyes in a way that suggested to him that she was struggling to keep them from brimming over. At the edge of her formal uniform collar Alphonse could see her pulse jump. Her hands moved mechanically as she applauded the couple, arms stiff, expression carefully schooled. He noticed Havoc tossing her a quick, appraising look as if to gage her mood. To the eye she was as cool as ever. Havoc, not the most perceptive man in the world, turned his attention back to Ed and Roy, cheering as loudly as the rest of the table.  
_This isn't good_, he told himself. _Not sure what I can do, if anything_. Alphonse was a man who genuinely loved women—loved them, understood them and cared for them as people. Oh, he admired their beauty, without a doubt. It was their minds that fascinated him So many men took women for granted, objectified them or referred to them by their body parts—a piece of ass, a great pair of knockers, pussy, etc. Alphonse had broken quite a few noses over the years instructing other males to behave like gentlemen. He loved women and seeing Riza struggling inwardly to maintain her composure and feigning a happiness she clearly didn't feel troubled him deeply. When Maes pressed a glass of champagne into her hand, the fingers that clutched the stem were trembling almost imperceptively.

He would never forget seeing her fall apart in that battle with the homunculi when she believed Roy was dead. _She was ready to die. She was actually ready to give up her life. And brother said she threatened suicide when Roy was out of his mind with grief, trying to kill Envy in the tunnels. If she really loved Roy, giving up and harming herself would be the last thing she'd want to do if she thought he was dead. No, she'd fight harder and never give up, keep living for his sake. This is so wrong…so wrong…_

She was staring at Mustang—and Roy was only seeing Edward, a satisfied smirk on his face as Edward ranted and yelled over the suggestions that he wear a dress to their wedding. She never took her eyes off him….and Alphonse never took his eyes off her…

###

Caramel was exceptionally sticky and nearly impossible to get out of velvet, silk or pubic hair. Butter was exceptionally slick, but it melted and dripped. Being an optimist, Roy chose to see the advantages of both substances, and if they made a bit of a mess on the upholstery on the red velvet chaise in Room 5, well, that's what alchemy was for. They had used and abused that poor piece of Gilded Age furniture so hard and so often and so messily that it was a wonder its molecular structure hadn't begun to disintegrate from the countless times Roy had reshaped it or remade it just to keep the upholstery clean.

Aunt Chris ruled the restaurant from her armchair, greeting her guests as they arrived. Rebecca Catalina did the legwork now, and it was Rebecca that collected the annual rent on Roy and Ed's private love nest. In return, Room 5 was always spotless, the small ice box was well provisioned with fresh butter, whipped cream, honey, chocolate sauce, champagne and strawberries. In addition, the 'toy chest' was also stocked with oils and lotions and its more anatomically correct contents carefully locked away from the prying eyes of the cleaning staff. There had been one little blonde that Rebecca had been forced to dismiss when she caught the girl kneeling beside the toy chest, staring frankly at a set of priceless solid jade pleasure beads strung on Xingese silk. "That's not a necklace," Rebecca snapped. "Get Chris to write you a check. I don't want to see you around here again, understand?"

Tonight she had laid out plenty of fresh towels in the adjoining bathroom, topped off the shampoo bottles and unwrapped new bars of Roy's favorite sandalwood soap. The butter was in its gilded crock, and she'd placed certain specified items on a covered serving tray from Spenser's Adult Emporium where Mustang had a private charge account. The Fuhrer was a generous tipper—Rebecca was quite accustomed to the well-stuffed envelopes he left for her after every night of debauchery he and Edward spent in their hideaway.

"They're on their way," Chris told her gruffly. "They just got engaged, Roy says. Send them some strawberry cheesecake."

"On the house?"

"Hell no! I'm not running a charity soup kitchen around here!"

###

"Should I carry you over the threshold?"

Ed punched him hard in the shoulder. "Start that crap with me and I'll marry you just so I can divorce you and sue your ass for mental cruelty." He sniffed and then grinned. Something smelled warm and brown-sugary and he gave his lover a wicked grin. "Is that what I think I smell?"

A sly smile answered him back. "Tonight's menu features 'Salted Caramel Surprise'.

"HUH?"

Before Edward could inquire further a pair of handcuffs were snapped on both of his wrists and they were quickly and alchemically fused to the ornate iron wall hook that previously held a hanging basket of flowers. Roy lifted the cover off the silver service tray, revealing a couple of long silk scarves and a small warming dish filled with what appeared to be caramel dipping sauce. One of the scarves was put over his eyes after several breathless kisses. Ed had no idea where the second one was going, but Roy had just grabbed hold of his waistcoat and shirtfront and casually ripped them open, buttons pinging off the walls.

Something very warm and rich-smelling was brushed over his lips and then sensuously licked off.

Ed groaned. His fiancée chuckled. _"Surprise…"_

….TO BE CONTINUED…..


	5. Chapter 5

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 5: "SALTED CARAMEL AND OTHER SURPRISES"

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

Roy Mustang was all too familiar with the destructive qualities of fire. He was equally aware that fire heals, especially the fire kindled between bodies. He was quick to deny it, but sometimes the only thing that made the long separations bearable was the healing flame generated when skin touched skin—breath to breath, hip to hip—after such a long absence. He needed that sweet friction and spark set off when lovers give of themselves, all the while equally greedy to take and take and take.

Edward was flushed, skin damp and deliciously salty, playfully bound, a silk scarf over his eyes. "I'll turn you loose in a moment," Roy purred throatily in his ear. "Are you all right like that?"

"Y..yeah…" He licked his lips and tasted traces of warm caramel and the tongue that had feathered it off. He shuddered. Being engaged to an older, more sophisticated man who was reared in a whorehouse had distinct advantages at times. This was one of them. Before Roy, his notion of sex was in, out, off, out the door and downstairs before he felt any more awkward. Oh, it felt good enough, but there was still that uncomfortable feeling that was too close to incest, and when he was honest—honest, and drunk and miles away, mostly—he recognized that while there was nothing strictly wrong with Winry, it was hard to feel rampaging lust for a girl who'd been raised as his sister.

Edward might stumble over an endearment but after fifteen years in Roy's bed he had learned to speak the language of passion very eloquently. Roy was an unabashed sensualist—inventive, often playful, his eyes taunting his lover, daring to see how far they could push the boundaries of pleasure together. Even after all this time he kept Ed off balance, never knowing if the night's encounter would be tender, silly, intense or abandoned. Would it be slow, sensual tongue baths and Ishballan erotic poetry breathed against Ed's skin or would Roy mount his back like a stallion, ride him like some feral beast, growling low obscenities in his throat? Ed never knew and that made him return home to his lover's bed with an appetite that increased as time went by.

As for Edward, his awkwardness in bed had vanished once Roy led him into the discovery of his own wants and needs. After sex he was drowsy and tender and the kisses were as leisurely as the hands that caressed Roy's skin. In the act of love, however, Ed was assertive, if not downright aggressive. He was not afraid to tell Roy what he wanted, how hard, how deep-or he might even flip Roy over on his back, climb up and force that steely phallus inside, rocking down hard and snarling out curses. Or he would yank those ivory thighs apart, drape the long legs over his shoulders and grind into the older man with no mercy at all, covering the pale chest with love bites and sucking Roy's nipples so hard they stung. Maybe this was what he'd been afraid of before, afraid to fuck like an animal, not trusting himself or trusting his former wife to understand…or more to the point, he simply couldn't let go in the bed of the girl who had gone from sister to wife with no transition. Roy met him more than half way—strength for strength, lust for lust. Roy taught him to revel in both surrender and conquest and in the end it didn't matter who rode or who was ridden. When the fires were quenched eyes met eyes with trust and love and they would lie in the dark together, contentedly entwined, grinning and utterly at peace.

He could hear the whisper of buttons slipping through buttonholes, of fine wool and crisply starched linen being folded and laid aside. His own shirt and waistcoat had been torn open—easy enough to repair with alchemy when they were done. Roy's breath was warm against his belly as Roy knelt to undo his trousers and remove his shoes. Naked in just his open shirt and waistcoat he shivered with want, aware that Roy was circling him, admiring him, fingers tracing the curve of well-cut abs, the soft golden down under his arms, the ripple of scarred back muscles. At last he pushed the remains of Ed's clothing aside and curled himself around his lover, chest to back, after guiding Ed's flesh foot up onto a stool Roy had dragged over. It made Ed's stance more stable and comfortable and spread his thighs at just the perfect angle for probing kisses and questing fingers.

"I missed the way you smell." Ed shuddered as Roy softly nuzzled the back of his neck. Something silken and hot circled his inner ear. 'And the way you taste….all over."

_"Shit!"_ Gritting his teeth, there was nothing Ed could do. His wrists were bound, his eyes blindfolded, his feet positioned just so…opening him for his lover's eyes. The curious tongue swirled and stroked its way down along his spine, interspersed with sharp nips that caught his breath. Roy drew back and then he gasped as something thick and cold pressed against his opening, pressed _inside_ as a hot mouth lapped at the moisture that was dripping down his length like hot wax on a burning candle. He knew what it was and why it would last only a few quick thrusts before the heat of his insides melted it. The melted butter trickled down his thigh—mixed with his and Roy's own rich muskiness it was a scent he associated with some of the most soul-shaking nights of sex he'd ever had in this room. It meant Roy intended to play upon his body like a fine instrument in the hands of a virtuoso. His head fell back, eyes closed beneath the blindfold. "_Do it_," he whispered. "Whatever you want…I don't care…"

The warmth of the melted caramel had something of the pleasant shock of Roy's mouth or his insides, but instead of the delicious tightness it was thick and silky and as warm as Roy was when he was rooted deep in that splendid body. Roy was kissing his mouth slowly as he stirred the thick sweet stuff with the head of Edward's captured cock.

He slid abruptly to his knees and plunged the whole treat into his mouth, humming with delight as he sucked and tongued and lapped at the reddened tip, sweet with caramel and salty from the beads of pearly fluid that pulsed from him with each caress. He rose and slid his tongue into Edward's mouth, sharing. "See how good you taste?" Roy whispered into Ed's open mouth. Ed sweated and shivered, his mind melting into something primal and pre-verbal. He could only make low, half moaning sounds that had long since ceased to sound human.

Licked clean, Roy then bathed Ed's member with a basin of warm water and a silken sponge, drying him carefully. Then the second silk scarf came into play.

Roy moved in close from behind, the slick crown of his own cock brushing Ed maddeningly under his balls and against the well-buttered opening that Ed wanted filled and plundered. Roy wrapped the scarf around Ed's length the way Ed would often wrap his own silken hair around Roy's shaft, tugging it this way and that and making Roy wail and thrash and demand release. "Now you know how it feels," Roy hissed , rubbing himself against the furl of muscle that clenched at his tip when he half breached it. Edward was slick with sweat now and his legs were shaking. "_I want….I…want…"_

"-_this_…." A slow push now, since it had been months since Ed had been breached. The butter slicked him within and without and there was very little resistance, although Ed was panting now as if he was running a race. Once deeply rooted, Roy tightened the silk scarf, under and around his balls and his shaft, binding him tightly. "You can't come until I release you…so enjoy the ride…"

Roy churned his hips, his rigid cock churning Ed's insides and pulling strange keening sounds from his throat. His cock was straining against the silk, wetting it, as Roy's hands swept his torso, along his straining arms, over his flanks, pinching at his nipples, one hand sliding between Ed's cheeks to stroke where they were joined, teasing that ring of muscle that strained and stretched to welcome his lover. 'This is my _wedding ring,_" Roy groaned in his ear. "This is the ring you gave me and nobody else…" His finger slid in alongside his cock, rubbing it from within. Ed hissed and sobbed and his knees buckled. "I'll wear it till I die…I swear it…I swear it…with _this_ ring…I thee wed…"

A clap of his hands and the blindfold was gone his hands were free and Ed howled and bucked hard, shouting for Roy to take it, take it hard-take it all…to take _him. _Roy bit his lip and slammed his hips once…twice again…then pulsed inside his lover.

Before Ed could recover he found himself flat on his back with Roy crouching over him like a madman, spreading himself, guiding himself down until he was pressed hard into the sweat-matted curls of Edward's groin. Ed rose half up, straining to kiss him, balls near to bursting as that wet heat owned him. He clutched at Roy's buttocks, spreading him wide, digging his nails in the straining muscle. Roy's eyes burned into his as he squeezed the shaft inside him. "_My_ ring," Ed grunted. "Give it to me!" Roy slammed down, tightened, sucked hard on Edward's tongue then yanked the silk free.

Ed burst inside him, hot and thick, Roy's name a strangled shout as he thrust blindly, riding out the last waves of pleasure.

On the other side of the door, standing watch, Jean Havoc wiped the sweat off his face. He was stiff in his pants—hell, he'd almost spooged himself. Not that he was attracted to men—hell, no! But all that energy—those…_sounds_…a guy couldn't help it if his dick got hard. In his mind, massive breasts that tasted like vanilla ice cream were rearing up to his mouth and there was something wet between creamy thighs that tasted even better. He should have at least thought of Riza when he rubbed himself off in the Gent's – he should have thought of her when he came but lately she'd been preoccupied and their coldest arguments occurred when he suggested that they break some bed slats and mess up some sheets. Women were mysterious creatures, he told himself as he wiped down and tucked back in, and there was just no figuring them out. Maybe the Boss and Ed were better off than they knew….

###

"The vote passed?"

"As expected." There was a discreet pause. "You'll be going through with your plans?"

The officer behind the desk didn't even dignify that with an answer. "There's no stipulated restriction on military or ex-military?"

"None. But the elected candidate will not serve as a military Fuhrer, but as a civilian President. That would mean retiring or resigning a military commission to prevent conflict of interest."

"Hmmmm….I see. Well, the advantage of that is that an officer can always accept re-commission, and in times of war or national emergency a retired officer can be called back to active service if he or she is fit for duty." There was a knowing smile. "And any fool who's read their history books understands that times of peace and plenty are always little more than a brief interlude. It is against human nature to expect men to co-exist in harmony for very long. There is always conflict simmering along the borders. Peace is tenuous. It's not wise to get too comfortable."

"So there's no impediment to your running? You're going to oppose Mustang?"

"Was there any question that I would not? If nothing else," there was a harsh smile now, "that greenhorn upstart needs to be reminded that command has to be earned, not given. He's getting soft. Grumman put him in that office. Let's see if he deserves to keep it, shall we?"

###

Elycia Hughes had made up her mind as a young girl that one day she would own the Il Gattina bakery. At twenty-four she was young to take over, but she had gone to work there part time since her early teens and Sophie had taken her on as an apprentice ten years ago. With her father's level head and planning skills and her mother's artistic sense she had done very well indeed, and once she came into her trust fund at 21 she had more than enough money to buy in as a co-owner. When Sophie's health became a problem, Elycia proposed to take over the establishment and leave the accounting to Sophie so she could stay off her feet. It was an arrangement that was agreeable to everybody and soon business was better than ever. Under Elycia's management they had even begun to market a line of pastries for sale in neighborhood markets and a newly inked agreement with the Funny Bear Ice Cream parlors gave them distribution rights to special ice cream flavors that Elycia dreamed up, inspired by people she knew and loved. There was a strawberry 'short' cake for Edward, a rich vanilla bean and fudge swirl for Alphonse, cool mint chip for Nina, a decadent coffee with dark chocolate chunks for Roy and for Maes there was Absolutely Nuts—a name nobody would argue with.

She was doing well and had expanded the little shop to add a larger full service café. It was bright and airy and a popular luncheon spot in Central, serving as hostess to greet the diners and insure that every meal was as delicious as the pastries and ice cream and chocolates sold on the other side.

The lady seated in the corner had been the first in for the day, arriving moments after the door opened. "A salad and a cup of soup, please, and ice water with lemon to go with that," she requested.

Nan, the pretty waitress who was Sophie's youngest sister, nodded and smiled as she penciled in the order on her pad. "That comes with our honey whole wheat rolls, They won't be out of the oven for about ten minutes, but I can bring you some as soon they're done and serve you your soup and salad now, if that would be all right?"

"No thank you, _dear_." The blonde woman patted her flat tummy proudly. "I'm watching my girlish figure. Have to look trim—the _camera_ puts five pounds on you, you know!" There was something about her altogether-too-sweet tone of voice that put Nan's teeth on edge, rather like someone who thought herself very clever and didn't believe the rest of the world was quite up to speed with her. " I've just spent a _hellish_ amount on this dress and getting my hair styled—_mustn't _spoil my looks! Would you be a _darling_ and serve my soup in a cup so I won't spill?" The woman pulled out a tiny silver compact and applied a layer of surprisingly red lipstick that Nan knew would be hell to get off the coffee cups.

Elycia stopped by the table to greet her customer, overhearing the comment. "Perhaps you might like to substitute your rolls with a side of our seasonal fruit salad."

The woman frowned. "_Canned_ fruit? Dreadful stuff. Can't believe you serve that rubbish."

Elycia bristled. "All of our salads are freshly made, Ma'am. Our fruit is fresh from Aerugo, shipped every week in the autumn and winter-"

"—one of those little _perks_ of being part of the _Fuhrer's_ entourage, I imagine." She made a sweeping gesture around the room. "I suppose 'Uncle Roy' paid for this too."

"I'll bring you your soup," the younger woman's eyes narrowed above a smile that was still welcoming, 'I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"If Maes were here, he'd be tempted to spit in it, " Elycia snapped to Nan as she poured the savory broth into a mug for her unpleasant customer."

"Her?" Nan's eyes grew wide. "I'd be careful with that one, Miss Elycia. She's like to write a book about you, shame your name all over if she don't like the meal. She's a snake in silk stockings-and I hope she spills the lot all over her dress!"

The passion of that outburst startled Elycia. "Nancy—just who is she, anyway?"

Dark brown eyes snapped with anger. "Don't you know? She's that horrid woman who wrote that book about nice Mister Armstrong bein' a coward and all—and about how his big sister the Major General," she lowered her voice, "is…well…a _Tom_ girl! Can you believe it?"

"You mean_, that's_ Kelley Winchell?"

"The very one, Miss."

"I'm half temped to spit in her soup myself." Elycia had seen the poster in the bookstore advertising '_Fire and Vice'_ and didn't find it particularly amusing. Bad enough this loathsome gossip was going after Uncle Roy, but she was certain her father's name would be dragged through the mud and wouldn't have been at all surprised if her and her mother wouldn't figure in the narrative as well. "She knows who I am."

"Nine'll give you ten on that one, Miss. She's probably reckoning that you don't know her well on sight—or if you do, you're too well raised to say anything to her."

"If this weren't a public place, oooh! What I wouldn't say to her!"

She brought Kelley Winchell her mug of soup, a crisp garden salad with a generous handful of roasted chicken chunks scattered over the top and a light vinaigrette dressing on the side. The fruit salad had been chopped by hand, the apples and pears crisp and juicy, accompanied by dried cranberries and toasted walnut pieces. She'd have served this luncheon to the fearsome Chef Ramsay at the Palace and not been afraid of critique. Winchell pointedly ignored it, flicking ashes from her cigarette over it before stubbing out the butt on the fruit plate. Winchell complained, in that nasty-nice way of hers, that the soup was too salty and would make her bloat, the chicken in her salad was too dry and the dressing tasted like it came out of a bottle—"but I supposed that can't be helped, my dear. After all, you are so _very_ young to try to run a restaurant by yourself."

"Not expecting a tip from that rat-bag, I'm tellin' you," Nan sighed.

_Tip_….that gave Elycia an idea. Il Gattina was on the corner and the parking area they shared with Chris Mustang's restaurant was closed off while being repaved. She glanced at the clock. "Half past eleven on a Thursday. That means…."

She darted back to the bakehouse, where Jake Leeson, the boy who had been shot in the alley by General Edison when Elycia had been taken hostage, was now her assistant manager. He had gotten part time work at Il Gattina's after recovering from his wounds and Chris Mustang had footed the bill for Jake's bakery apprenticeship and bought her breads exclusively from Il Gattina for her own successful establishment. Jake, if anything, was more efficient than even Elycia, overseeing every detail from finding the sweetest cherries for their cordial chocolates to making sure the grease traps were cleaned and that the trash went out three times a day.

"Jake!' she shouted above the din of oven doors slamming and trays of hot rolls being slapped on marble counters. 'Have they done the traps yet?"

"Mr. Rowe's out there now!" Nobody envied the poor man who had to muck out the grease traps and tip them into the trash truck. They were shared by both Il Gattina and Mustang's and the reek of rancid beef fat was so offensive that, as Maes put it, 'it could knock a buzzard off a shithouse'.

"Excellent!" She gave Jake a hug and darted out the back door.

"Sorry, Ma'am, but you can't press charges. This isn't the reserved lot. You parked in the alley—which is public property," the police officer informed Miss Winchell as she shouted and waved her arms furiously. A great splash of something greasy and foul-smelling covered the hood of her expensive new brougham. The windows were thankfully rolled up but the stench would take some time to dissipate once the muck had been scrubbed off. "You'd just as well sue the pidgeons that poo'ed on your windshield. If I were you, I'd park somewhere else next time."

Mr. Rowe and Jake were hiding out in the storeroom, roaring with laughter. Elycia popped in her head, eyes dancing with ill-concealed glee. "That'll teach that old cow," she told them. "Lunch is on me, guys!"

….TO BE CONTINUED…


	6. Chapter 6

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 6: HELL IN HIGH HEELS

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

"ED! Do you MIND?"

The voice from the other side of the bathroom door was not even remotely repentant. "Hey, I didn't put pickled beef and cabbage on the menu last night. Not my fault my gut's not happy!"

"Well….drink some of Chen's tea or take some bismuth or something!"

The laughter on the other side of the door was fiendishly vindictive. "Dare ya to snap your fingers."

"There's not enough fire insurance to cover blowing the roof off. You done in there?" Ed's habits of monopolizing the bathroom irked Roy every morning. Ed wasn't the only person whose digestion could be temperamental, thanks to both of them being pierced through their kidney and intestines on their left sides. Thankfully, the shower and dressing area was separated, but even the mightiest of world leaders has to empty his bladder at some point. "I swear, I'm going to have a second one installed. This is ridiculous!"

"Yeah, yeah…you've been saying that for ten years and you've never done it. Keep your pants on…I'm coming out."

"Use the spray, damn it."

"Coward!" Ed pushed past his lover and headed for the twin sinks. Not that he needed much barbering—Al joked that a cat would be more than adequate for licking off Ed's whiskers—but he was neat to a fault-at least about his person. His books and papers and desk space may have looked like a bomb hit them but he arrived at his office freshly showered and shaved, his hair pulled back in a neat queue that his lover had combed out for him before leaving.

For all the bitching, there was some kind of comfort Ed drew from the familiarity of morning rituals. The rich sandalwood smell of Roy's favorite soap, the two razors laid side by side beside two shaving mugs and two finely bristled shaving brushes. Two toothbrushes—"I'll suck your cock, but I'll be goddamned if I'll share your toothbrush," Ed declared. The strangely soothing rite of Roy brushing out the braid he slept in, gathering the shining mass into a single glossy tail that was secured with an elastic to keep it out of Ed's way. "Cut it more than a trim and I'll grow my mustache back" Roy threatened. "You've got me around to care for it."

Mirrors were ignored when they were home together. Roy adjusted Ed's tie or cravat and handed him his glasses. Ed adjusted Roy's aiguillette and collar, brushed off his shoulder boards and critically approved the sleek black hair that always threatened to tumble back over Roy's forehead, the way Ed preferred it. Polished and pressed (with a few rumples from impulsive kisses) they made their way down to breakfast together with whoever was currently in residence

.

This morning Nina and Maes were off to their classes and Alphonse had gone out on some early errands. There was a fragrant platter of fried country ham—ordered from Havoc's General Store—to accompany fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp brown toast with Gracia's homemade marmalade and enough coffee to drown in, served up in the electrically heated coffee pot that Maes had built with his mother—an anniversary present to Ed and Roy from Winry and Pitt.

Amid the flapping of newspapers and the slurping of cup after cup of fresh brewed 'starter fluid', as Maes called it, Ed and Roy went over their daily schedules.

"Got two interviews for staff candidates," Ed mumbled around a bite of toast. "And Pyotir and I have a phone conference planned around noon over that fuel equation. He's coming up around Solstice—so are Maxim and Alexi."

"I'll alert security," Roy nodded. Ed's three lively colleagues from Drachma had scarcely mellowed with age, although Pyotir was much happier now that alchemic advances of sea-going vessels had made travel much faster, meaning that he saw far more of his husband Nikolai than ever. The brief infatuation the older man had felt for Ed years ago was now a thing to be joked over—no hard feelings on either side. "I've got an appointment at the Grand Central Theater about that damnable gala. They are trying to persuade me into giving a speech—strikes me as bad form and tacky as hell."  
Ed studied his fiancée over his cup. "You hate this whole thing."

"I do. Unfortunately," Roy flapped his newspaper irritably, "it appears that a sitting head of state is expressly forbidden to share a private birthday in the bosom of his family. I would rather have a cake baked by Elycia and eat a steak with Aunt Chris than have snails in butter and runny cheese at some ridiculous black tie affair."

"Snails? You're fuckin' kidding me!"

"A gift from your dear old friend Pio Ignacio Bacalla. Ramsay contracted him as a vendor. Granted, the wines and cheeses we can get from him are first rate…but lark's tongues and pigeon brains in aspic? Who does he think I am—Sun King Claudio?" Roy threw his paper and napkin down in disgust. "I'm late as it is. Let me get this over with."

A coffee-flavored kiss brushed across Ed's mouth before Roy straightened his cap. "The last thing we're going to let them do is ruin our wedding. Agreed?"

_"Damn straight."_

Roy stood at center stage, dark eyes flicking here and there, unfamiliar and not altogether comfortable with his surroundings. His footsteps echoed unnaturally. It smelled…_odd._ Like dust and greasy makeup and overheated light fixtures and musty velvet curtains. The wooden planks beneath him were scarred and covered with flaking black paint.

When he spoke, his voice carried to 'the gods'—the cheap seats anybody could afford for a few cenz. He sat there a few times as a young major, right after the war, usually with his arm around somebody's secretary. In later days he had seats reserved in one of the boxes and would arrive fashionably late, somewhere in the middle of the overture, again escorting someone's secretary or someone else's mistress or girlfriend or any other likely beauty whose plump, painted lips might begin to slip after an evening of champagne, theatre and the full force of his charm. The most recent woman he had escorted to the Grand Central Theatre was his daughter for the premier of the stage musical "_The Fullmetal Alchemist"_, inspired by the lives of her family. While Nina thought the actress playing her father at twelve wonderfully funny, Roy found the whole show about as amusing as having a bullet extracted.

This time he wasn't in the Presidential Box. He was on the stage itself and there were people swarming all over him—adjusting the lights, fiddling with his hair, suggesting he needed 'just a smidge' of petroleum jelly on his lips to give them a 'luscious shine'. His right hand twitched; it was a reflex and a warning to anyone who knew him well. _As a Colonel I could chew them all out and tell them to leave me the hell alone. I have to be tactful now, damn it. _ A discreet gesture brought Havoc to his side. "Find out how close we are to being done so I can get the hell out of here," he whispered.

Alphonse, sensing his superior officer's moodiness, politely inquired how much longer did the gala director need the guest of honor. "Just a few more minutes," he informed the Fuhrer and his assistant. "Miss Turlough has just pulled up—she wants to meet you before you leave."

At the mention of the Ice Cream Blonde, Havoc bit his lip. "Al, you lucky son of a bitch." Al had volunteered to keep Gladys Turlough sober, dressed and well behaved before and during the Presidential Birthday Gala. As far as anyone knew, there were only two men who could conquer a lady's heart faster than Roy Mustang: King Claudio Rico of Aerugo and Alphonse Elric, the son of a simple farm girl from Resembool. Claudio had vast wealth, a crown and remarkably blue eyes. Alphonse had something…well…not easy to define, Havoc thought. He wasn't manipulating them, as Mustang had, dating and screwing his way to information about his superiors to make his way to the top. Alphonse was open, kind, generous…and if the ladies were to be believed, he could do things with his tongue and fingers that made women squeal in tones only dogs could hear. Havoc had actually gotten up the nerve to ask Al just exactly what he was doing. The younger Elric just smiled, shrugged and said, "Oh…nothing special. I just want to make them happy."

Gladys Turlough had a breathy, baby-voice that oozed sex. Havoc reckoned that when Alphonse got his hands on her every window in a four-block radius would be in danger of shattering from the sonic impact of her sex cries. "Lucky bastard," he muttered again and the Fuhrer smirked at his annoyance.

"Amazing…she stopped walking but bits of her are still moving." One dark brow lifted a fraction. "Proof positive of the laws of physics." Mustang glanced at his aide. "_Breathe_, Havoc," he reminded him sharply.

"Ohhhh….it's the Birthday Boy!" It came out as half a gasp, half a squeal and one hundred percent insinuation. Training her thick-fringed baby blue eyes at the Fuhrer, Gladys Turlough sauntered across the stage, leading with her hips but her breasts well ahead of her shoulders. Havoc's cigarette dropped out of his mouth. Roy discreetly crushed it with his shoe.

An angora sweater, winter white, mapped out curves that left little to the imagination. Gilded Age Revival might be the latest fashion in Aerugo with the voluminous skirts and corsetry but Gladys Turlough was wondrously out-of-date, sporting a skirt whose brevity magnetized even Mustang's eyes to a length of creamy white thigh. Her nails were lacquered a soft pearly pink and her frosty lipstick wouldn't have been _too_ difficult to get out of one's boxers.

Ten polished nails danced up Roy's lapels and he caught a whiff of some costly fragrance that was probably named something like "Caresse" , although "Torn Panties" would have been more appropriate. She tilted her head back to gaze up adoringly into those penetrating black eyes and shivered with delight. "Ohhhhh….I never knew you were so gorgeous up close. I just _love_ older men!"

"Permit me to introduce you to General Grumman some time," Roy deflected, discreetly unhooking her from his uniform. He kissed her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Turlough. I appreciate you agreeing to perform for the gala. I don't need to tell you that your presence will increase donations for our scholarships. You are helping our young people more than you'll ever know, and we are very grateful."

The lashes fluttered. "I'm _always_ happy to lend a helping—" her eyes darted down to below Roy's waist, "-_hand_…to the young men of Amestris."

Alphonse stepped quickly to her side. "And the young women," he added with his most charming smile.

Bright blue eyes appraised him the way Izumi appraised a side of beef that would look good on the supper table. The tip of a pink tongue passed over her upper lip. "Young _women_. I love to make them happy, too."

There was a very long silence. Roy nudged Havoc sharply in the ribs. Havoc sucked in his breath noisily. "My apologies, Miss Turlough, but I must be getting back to Parliament. I have a meeting with the Cretan ambassador." He kissed her hand again. "A pleasure, Ma'am. I look forward to working with you."

She guided her hand to her mouth and kissed the spot Roy had touched, eyes never leaving his face. "The pleasure is….all….mine….Fuhrer Mustang." Alphonse stepped in quickly and took her arm, suggesting that he take her to lunch before going over the scripts and songs for the gala.

Roy paused before they exited the theatre. "Perhaps you'd like to stop off at the men's room," he told Havoc.

"Sir?"

"You might want to adjust your trousers. I'll wait outside."

Two minutes later Havoc had a stranglehold on an erection that threatened to poke his eye out. Sweat was dripping down his collar. "Mmmmm….ohyeah….that's good…suck itsuckitHARD…yeahbaby_….FUUCKKKYEAHHHHHHH_…" Baby pink lips were vacuum-locked around the base of his cock in his fevered imagination, and pearly pink nails were tickling his scrotum. At the last minute he tried to hijack his fantasy of a platinum blonde to one of a more ordinary hue, trading the white angora sweater for a severe blue uniform and black leather boots. His orgasm eluded him and with a trace of guilt he focused again on the smell of exotic perfume, pink polish and a babyish voice cooing in his ear….

###

"The gala and the Fuhrer's birthday are next week," Kelley Winchell informed the woman who was pushing back her cuticles after a long soak in warm, soapy water. "You'll have to work me in."

"Are you going to the gala?" her manicurist asked eagerly. "Gladys Turlough was in here about an hour ago to get her nails done and her legs waxed before meeting Fuhrer Mustang this morning."

"Dear me….all that pain of waxing for nothing. Mustang only wants a woman if he wants something _from_ the woman." She puffed lightly on her cigarette, careful not to smudge her polish. "_I_ should know. Have you seen the advertisements in the bookshops? I've got a new book coming out in time for the Fuhrer's birthday—you ought to read it. _Very_ informative…._if_ you know what I mean."

Before she left, she tripled her tip. "I'd love to meet Miss Turlough. You'll call me when you've got an convenient opening in your appointment book on Gala day, won't you?"

A thousand cens to a trash collector. Ten thousand and a blowjob to a prison warden. Anything to get the story, and as long as her fans lined up at the bookstores she would have capital to invest in research.

Of course, sometimes all it took was a bit of quick thinking, a change of clothing and she could sweet talk her way in to the homes and offices of the most unwary…

"He's a good boy," the old woman had told her visitor over and over again, like a needle stuck in the scratched groove of a phonograph record. "A very good boy." Her mind had begun to slip into a twilight haze these days. When asked about the late Fuhrer her lips would tremble and her eyes would wander away, coming always to rest on the face of the black haired young man who patted her hand gently, always smiling, his face as simple as his mind.

Edison had written detailed notes about The Boy. "He's a simpleton now, after Fullmetal damaged him. There is no knowing what he is truly aware of. But if there is any way his memories can be awakened, more of Mustang's plot might be discovered."

Kelley Winchell was not about to leave any stone unturned when digging for source material.

He looked years younger than his visitor had expected, younger than if he had truly been with his adopted father, Fuhrer President Bradley, at the time of the train wreck. He had an odd scar on his forehead—maybe it was a birthmark. He was very innocent—damaged but not a drooling imbecile. Still, he was not competent to care for his aging mother, slipping into senility as she was, and the pretty blonde lady who said she was from the state nursing home smiled at him and brought him sweets and talked kindly to him.

Mrs. Bradley smiled and nodded and patted her son's hand. The young man smiled and patted her back. When Mrs. Bradley toddled off for her nap the kind blonde visitor pulled out her notebook and smiled very kindly at her host. "Now, young man," she asked brightly, "tell me what you remember about _Father_…."

Several hours later Mrs. Bradley roused and immediately searched for her son. She found him huddled in the corner, rocking himself for comfort, his face flushed from weeping. "I'm a real boy…I'm real…I'm real…" He stared up at her wildly. "I'm a good boy?"

The haze in her mind retreated, and Mrs. Bradley struggled down to her knees, pulling him tightly to her breast. "You're a good boy, Selim….the best boy in the world…."

###

"I wanna get my hands on that shit-rag bio of hers. I wanna see it _before_ it hits the press. You're the devious one. Nobody knows who the hell you are. You figure it out."

Ruby put down her coffee and stared at Edward. "Hold on—you're asking me for a favor?"

Ed shook his head impatiently. "Not for me, damn it. For Roy. You wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire." He sighed heavily and tugged at the end of his ponytail. "Look, I don't know what kind of bullshit Winchell is going to print but considering the way she reamed out old Grumman…shit, I can't let her do this to Roy!" He looked desperate. "Look…you're in intelligence now. I know Hawkeye briefed you on the Promised Day. Told you all the shit that went down…the shit we wanna keep out of the public—about Father and the Homunculi. Do you have any idea what could happen if that comes out?"

No one, least of all Edward Elric, could call Ruby of Wisteria Valley a fool. The implications made her shiver. "Yeah…they'll start burning alchemists at the stake."

"And Roy will be the first in line if we don't help him."

Ruby considered. "They might go for you and Al first, you know. It was your father that started all this." She didn't mean it unkindly. "He didn't mean to make it happen, but still…" An awful thought occurred to her. "Maes…Nina….they're alchemists-and they're Hohenheim's blood too." Ed looked like he'd been kicked in the gut, color draining from his face. Ruby nodded. "Don't sweat it, Boss. I'll see if I can call in a few favors…."

###

At the Radio Capital office, Gracia Hughes carefully composed her lovely features and kept her eyes on her newspaper, Her ears, however, were sharply tuned to the conversation on the other side of the room. Top news anchor Donal Samuelson, former host of the still-popular _Midday Amestris_ lunchtime program, was in a heated debate with Riley Williams, one of the more controversial political commentators who had his own afternoon call in program.

"I'd give long odds on the other candidate. Mustang's going to be hard to beat."

"Yeah, well, maybe he's not too bright. I mean, he's got the whole shebang in his hands. Why risk it? You don't get that kind of power and give it up. Unless…."

"Unless what?"

"Unless…you know that dame who knocked Grumman's dick In the dirt? That book she's got coming out on Mustang? You think she's got the goods on him?"

"I don't know. I've covered the Mustang beat for—what—sixteen years? I've interviewed him a hundred times. Guy's slick as an eel about some parts of his life, but when he talks politics he's not playing around. He's damned serious about service to his country."

"Donal, you don't sound objective."

"I'm as objective as a thinking, educated, rational Amestrian can be about Roy Mustang."

'Huh! That sure as hell puts you in the minority!"

Once they were alone, Gracia brought her old colleague a cup of coffee. "Aren't you interviewing Kelley Winchell next week?"

"Yeah…" Donal shook his head. "Not looking forward to that. Ever heard of the term 'yellow journalism', Gracie? It means there are writers and reporters out there who take the truth and piss all over it."

"Have you read the book yet?" Gracia knew Donal would be given an advance galley copy to research for his interview.

Donal looked suddenly tired. "Yeah. Yeah, I have, parts of it. Gotta finish it before Monday. You're not going to like it one damn bit."

She kept her voice calm and friendly. "She's written about Maes and Roy, I'm guessing. It's not as if I'm in denial. That was before we married and Roy has been like a second father to Elycia and like a brother to me. I don't think there's much she can say about that situation that would bother me."

He nodded sympathetically. The whole Hughes/Mustang cadet affair was old news and since nobody denied it the impact didn't have the effect General Edison had hoped. Most people privately sympathized with Gracia for having to find out the hard way, but Roy's attentiveness to her and her daughter went a very long way in the public eye to making things right. "What else?" she asked.

"There's…I don't know…the most unbelievable rubbish in there about a plot to kill all the people in Amestris by Alchemy-yeah, I know, that's old news too. But she says she has eyewitness proof that Mustang was in the thick of it—Colonel Hawkeye too. He set her up as a spy in Bradley's office and used her to set up his death. Supposedly Mustang ordered the bridge blown up to kill Bradley and Selim. She says she knows of one survivor of the incident and corroborates Edison's notes."

"A survivor? Of the train wreck? How on earth is that possible?" she demanded.

"I haven't finished it yet. It's pretty nauseating. I suppose I'll take it home over the weekend, put a clothespin on my nose and slog through it."

"Tell you what—Elycia's expecting me for lunch. Have you tried her brand new rum cake she's making for special orders? It's delicious! I was going over anyway for a sandwich. Why don't you join me? My treat, of course."

"Rum cake? My grandmother used to make rum cake! An old Southern recipe. Didn't touch a drop of liquor—great grandmother was a Temperance advocate—but she could knock you on your keester with her desserts, haahaahhaa!"

Elycia's rum cake was an 'off the menu' specialty and she carded everyone she served it to. Jake had whomped it up with some leftover 151 proof dark rum he'd won at one of the strip poker games hosted after hours by Rebecca Catalina. Old Chris Mustang liked the cake so much she served it in her restaurant, frequently calling a cab for anyone who had seconds. It was dangerous to smoke or light candles on the table because the fumes could go up like an Ishballan village during the war. Donal had a weakness for sweets, made worse by a wife that nagged him to cut back. With luck, Donal would require a designated driver to get him home…and that designated driver had slipped Ruby her office key. "Tell them I forgot my wallet—I left it in my top drawer," Gracia had whispered into the phone. "Donal's office is next to mine. He keeps all the story notes and research in the tray on his desk. Grab the book and get it to Ed-we've got to get it back by Saturday morning before Donal sobers up and goes back for it."

###

"I could fuckin' kiss you, Ruby!"

"Not unless you've had all your shots," Ruby shuddered, passing the parcel to Edward. "How about a raise, skinflint?"

"For this?" Ed scribbled a note on a piece of paper and handed her his old pocket watch. "Take this out of my retirement fund and go buy yourself a sense of humor."

She stared at the figure. She blinked. "I'm gone before you change your mind," she muttered, leaving Edward alone with galley proofs of "Vice and Fire"

Ed grabbed the phone. "SHESKA! Need you—on the double!"

….TO BE CONTINUED…..


	7. Chapter 7

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 7: SPACE TO BREATHE

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

Fortune-telling was rubbish as far as Roy was concerned—however when Havoc pulled the car up to the back entrance of Rose Hill the hair on the back of his neck stood at attention. Was that stubborn twig of hair that sprouted above Ed's forehead some sort of antenna, specifically tuned to broadcast ill omens? His lover had been in a reasonably mellow mood this morning, following a night that involved quite a lot of mattress-bending athletics that left both of them with stiff necks and slightly bruised lips—and mutual smiles.

Years of practice had taught him to slam on the mental brakes before stepping into a potentially stressful situation. He diverted his mind to thoughts of the honeymoon to be planned, preferably fifty kilometers away from the press and his personal handlers. A rustic cabin somewhere sounded good to him. In his mind he caught hold of a pleasant image of sitting on the front steps of a cabin at dusk, dinner sizzling on a spit and Ed beside him, smelling of wood smoke and hair wet from skinny dipping with Roy in a creek and his own comforting musk-metal scent. He held that image tightly, took a slow breath and then stepped inside to greet the pandemonium.

"EDWARD!" Sheska was waving her arms wildly, glasses at half-mast on the end of her nose. "_Please! _You're _vulturing_ me!"

"I gotta know what it says!"

"She's trying to read it, idiot!" Ruby shouted. "Back off—she can't even breath with you swarming over her like a blowfly—"

"She's taking too long—"

"—and it's going to take her forever if you don't shut up, back off, and leave her the hell alone—"

_"Edward."_ The voice was low, soft and authoritative. "In my office. It's important."

Edward's eyes were blazing. "Not as much as this book!"

"What book?"

"This!" Ed snatched at the brown paper bound galley proof volume, trying to yank it away from Sheska, who hugged it close to her meager bosom. "This! This piece of crap that's going to ruin your life!"

"Edward…._stop._" The dark eyes held him. "I must talk with you. _Now._ Please." He nodded towards his office. "I'll be right there." They locked eyes for several uncomfortable moments but there was no challenge in Roy's gaze. Uneasy, Ed dropped his eyes and sighed. "Okay," he finally sighed. "I'll….whatever…"

As soon as he was gone, Roy laid his hand on Sheska's shoulder. "I'm sorry about that. Is this the biography everybody is getting so perturbed about?" She nodded, looking miserable, making apologetic noises about not having read and memorized the book yet—she'd had it less than half an hour. Roy laid his finger to his lips and shushed her gently. Down on one knee, they were on eye level. "_Sheska_…." His voice was very soft, very kind. She hadn't noticed before how lovely his eyes were—so dark and liquid and thickly lashed…and his low voice was like velvet against her spine. "I'm so sorry about all this. Edward is concerned—and maybe there's nothing in that rubbish to be concerned about. I'm a public figure. I've been shot at with bullets—and hit a time or two. Words aren't likely to do me much harm, but Edward gets so protective about his friends and family.." The hand on her shoulder seemed to grow warmer by the moment. "Sheska…nobody I know has a talent like yours. Eidetic memory is so rare. Nobody knows better than me what you've done for this country—especially when General Hughes needed you the most. Now," he turned his smile upon Ruby, "I want Chef Ramsay to make you an amazing meal and set you up in the conservatory—an indoor picnic, if you like. Relax and enjoy yourselves, and when you're rested and ready….would you mind reading this…_trash_…so we know what this…._person_…knows…and then hopefully we can forget this? I'll manage Edward and keep him out of your hair. Will you help me, please?"

Ruby, immune to the patented Mustang Charm® , wisely refrained from making vomiting noises, Sheska, caught in her superior's spell, swallowed hard and nodded. "Wonderful….and Sheska?"

"S-sir?"

"I hope you and your mother like the Lake Region. It's warm, and you mustn't forget your swimsuit when I send the two of you on holiday over Solstice. Ruby? Please ring for Sebastian. Give your picnic order to him and Ramsay will have you set up properly. Oh, and have him send up a couple of beers and a tray of sandwiches to my office." He nodded and disappeared through the office doors.

"Manipulative bastard," Ruby groused.

"With amaziiiiiiing eyes," Sheska qualified, looking slightly bedazzled.

###

He was a good boy. A _good_ boy, the best in the world. She knew it in her heart, and for the last twenty years she gave thanks for his sweet soul and gentle spirit from the moment a sorrowful Edward Elric brought her the oh-so-tiny and helpless infant, curled up on the folds of Edward's tattered red coat.

Grumman let her keep him. _Let_ her? In lucid moments she balked at that thought a little. After all, admittedly, he wasn't her flesh—or King's, for that matter. His making was something she didn't dwell upon. When King chose her and brought this child to her as a family orphan she had loved him from the very first. "What an unusual name!" she exclaimed, smiling down at the beautiful little boy. "Is it a family name, dear?"

"I don't believe so," King had told her. "Let's look it up in a baby book, shall we?"

It took them awhile but eventually King had an answer for her. "Selim means 'peace', according some of the ancient texts about Xerxes. Imagine—a name so very ancient. I wonder where they discovered it. Well," he patted her arm fondly, "he's certainly brought peace and happiness to us, my dear, wherever the name came from."

The truth, when it was finally revealed to her, was almost impossible to bear. Her husband was dead—had given an order to kill everyone _except _Mustang alone. Her King had possibly given an order to terminate her life…and yet she loved him, loved him as she had loved no other person save only the beautiful son he had brought to her. Had she really known the man who wooed her so ardently and won her heart all those years ago? Had he truly known what kind of creature he had brought into their home or had King been as innocent as she had been?

In the end, she didn't know and it didn't truly matter. This boy was the most precious joy of her life, even if his mind had not developed as his body had. He would be her little boy forever and ever and nobody would ever separate them…

…unless the Fuhrer chose to destroy him.

That was the pact she had agreed to with Grumman. She could love Selim, shelter him, raise him as her own—even give him the legal name 'Selim Bradley'. Whether or not she could keep him forever would be dependent on whether or not Selim became Pride again. Should those memories stir, the Fuhrer had no choice but to take her precious son away and…and…

"I won't think about that," she told herself. "He's a very, _very _good boy."

She had her good days and days when she would forget to turn the gas burner off the stove. Selim diligently followed behind, turning off the water taps, the stove burners, finding where she left her glasses or her daily medications. He heated her canned soups and could make a sandwich for her without cutting himself when she wasn't quite up to cooking their meals or keeping house for them.

But she was growing older and forgetful and in her lucid moments she was heartsick to think who would care for her wonderful little boy when she could no longer take care of herself. It saddened her to think that she could not make that determination herself. It would be made by the kindly, elegant man who was coming to see them at teatime tomorrow—the man who ruled Amestris in King's stead: Roy Mustang.

###

Before Ed could speak, Roy lifted his hand. "Fire minutes. Give me five minutes to say what I need to say and then you can yell as much as you want."

Ed was about to blurt out an argument. Wisely, he bit it back and nodded. "Go ahead."

Roy's hands rested heavily on his shoulders. "Right now…_right now_…I need to keep calm. The odds are that there is nothing in that book that hasn't either come out or been speculated before by someone else. I know who this author is. I know what she did to Grumman's career. I know what she tried to do to the Armstrongs. We won't know until Sheska is done. She's the right person to help us and I'm going to make sure she's rewarded AND well paid for this. She needs time and quiet to do what she does best—and even though I know you're worried, we both need to leave her in peace until she's read it and made notes. I told her to have dinner and to take her time and do this accurately.

"Now…if you think I don't have a clue what the implications could be over this piece of trash, you're wrong. I do. Depending on who her sources are there could be material in that book that could hurt others—I'm not concerned about what she says about me personally. If she hurts others or risks national security, I'm going to get _angry_. You've seen me when I'm really angry. You know that's not a good thing. If anything-any details—about the Promised Day or Father or Bradley's involvement is in there…I am going to have to keep my temper in check. _I. Do. Not. Want. To. Lose. My. Temper._ Not again." His words were spoken with great care and articulation, and the implications behind those words were so strong that even Edward couldn't miss them. "I do not want Colonel Hawkeye to have to fulfill her obligation to hold me accountable for my actions. You are aware of the threats she made to herself if she were called to shoot me as directed. We are not playing that scene a second time. And so," his arms slid around Edward's shoulders and drew him close, "I am _asking_ you to help me to stay calm. Right now, _this_ is what I need." Roy maneuvered his lover into a very tight embrace, his chin resting on the younger man's shoulder, his lips against Edward's ear. "As much as I love to fuck…and you _know_ I love to fuck…that's not what I need right now. Just…be here. I need space to breathe before we find out what we're dealing with. You okay with that?"

"…..yeah…" Edward studied his lover for several moments then led him over to the sofa. "C'mere." He fitted himself into his favorite corner and pulled Roy down beside him. "Turn around." He helped Roy out of his jacket and began digging his fingers into tight muscles. "Damn…that's harder than your dick. Take a breath." Lifting his knee he positioned it between Roy's shoulder blades and pulled his lover slowly back. There was a series of loud popping noises. "Teacher used to do this to Sig all the time—showed me how to do it. Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks." The fingers kneaded and prodded and then the hands stroked until Roy sighed heavily and leaned back against Edward's chest, the younger man's arms wrapped around him, his head resting against Ed's cheek.

A while later Sebastian brought in an enormous sandwich constructed of a whole loaf of crusty bread, paved with cold cuts and cheeses and vegetables. It was accompanied by a big basket of crisp fried potatoes and a bucket of ice filled with long necked beers. "Notice he left the onions off," Roy smirked.

"And why is there a crock of butter next to the mustard?" Ed wanted to know.

"Because he's put up with us for fifteen years and knows us too damn well."

Ed looked thoughtful. "You don't think Sebastian would-"

"-talk to Winchell? Absolutely not. And if he suspected anyone else in the house had, he'd have come to me…or handled it himself. He does keep a coil of garroting wire in his pocket, you know." Ed shuddered. It was sometimes hard to reconcile the stately major domo who ran the house with quiet efficiency with his deadly skills as a Black Ops security agent. Any intruder that managed to breach the security at Rose Hill would be better off being shot by a guard than to fall into Sebastian's gloved hands. "And if we start getting paranoid and looking for moles we'll drive each other and everyone around us out of their minds."

They demolished the gargantuan sandwich and had curled up with a couple of good books, eventually dozing off. During that time Maes came in, whistling off key, filthy and smiling from his workshop. Spying Sheska at her desk, the younger Elric gave her a playful wolf whistle. "So this is where they're hiding all the beautiful women! I need to come home early more often!"

His cheery smile evaporated when he saw the look on her face. "Hey…what's wrong?" he asked gently, perching on the corner of her desk. "Is Dad being an asshole again or something?"

Sheska shook her head sadly and held up the book. Maes drew back comically and made one of those gestures that old Drachman _babushkas_ made to ward off evil. "The only thing Kelley Winchell's books are good for," he stated firmly, "is for driving rats out of the pantry—they are the ultimate repellant. Nina won't touch her books without rubber gloves. I don't blame her." He peered at the title and made a face. "So…going after Uncle Roy—probably Dad and Uncle Maes too. If Uncle Alphonse hadn't raised me to be a gentleman I could make a few observations on her morals-assuming she has any."

"She hasn't," Sheska told him. "Maes, this is so bad…so bad…"

Edward's son reached for the book, holding it between his fingers as if it had been dipped in raw sewage. "Who publishes this crap?" He examined the book's spine much as he might have examined a smear of dog shit on his boot. 'Dickon and Howe and Sons' Hmmm….seem to remember them. Ol' Dick'em And How, Son, we call 'em. They publish lots of cheap paperback man-on-man wankables one finds in the lavatories in the boy's dorms." He winked again at the horrifed expression on Sheska's face. "Not that _I_ would know anything at all about wanking, mind you." He flipped through a few pages. "Well, no naked pictures. That's a relief. Uncle Roy would probably worry that the keyhole camera used to take naughty snaps of him and Dad might add five pounds to his boyish figure. Of course, that depends where those five pounds are added, I suppose…"

"Maes, be serious! This is terrible-the things she's got in there about the President—"

Maes lifted his hand to quell her outburst. "Okay, okay. So it's shit between dustcovers and it's probably got stuff that shouldn't see the light of day. Am I right? Have you talked to Dad and Uncle Roy yet?"

"Not yet."

"Okay. Suppose you give me the skinny first. Warts and all. "

"—but—"

Golden eyes flashed with the same gleeful malice she'd seen long ago in his father's own eyes. "_Nobody_ messes with _my_ family. I don't get mad…I get _even_."

###

Five little words.

Amazing that a man could be enslaved, his mind turned to goo, his loins to iron and his will to putty with five little words.

Alphonse was, if anything, a bigger babe magnet than Mustang, possibly even more than King Claudio of Aerugo. The lace on women's panties had been known to ignite whenever Al tossed them his sincere, boyish grin.

He smiled at Gladys. Listened to her. Made useful suggestions. Bought her a lovely dinner and even knew what wine she liked—wine, not hard liquor. At dinner she found him charming and smiled and nodded and listened to him. She would be good, she promised, and make this gala a success.

Then Alphonse went to the men's room and Gladys Turlough enslaved Jean Havoc with five little words:

_"Can I have a cigarette?"_

With trembling hands, he put two between his lips, grateful that he didn't accidentally shove them both up his nose. Lighting them both, he passed one to her. She took a deep drag and then blew out a stream of smoke from pursed lips he'd fantasized around his cock earlier.

"I like Alphonse," she confided. "I do. I really do…but…" She leaned in close. "I just _love_ a man in uniform." Her fingers slid under the table and brushed his thigh. "Especially a big strong country boy who knows how to treat a lady."

A few hours later, after he'd volunteered to walk her home, she proved that she knew how to treat a man.

Baby pink lipstick on his boxers was only the start. She did things to him that were probably illegal in some countries. Things that defied the laws of man and gods and physics. She licked places he didn't think he could _pay_ a woman to lick and when she showed him pictures of herself romping naked with another woman, doing astonishing things to one another with an empty champagne bottle, she told him, "that was fun…but you're more my size, Country Boy."

It was a quarter past three when he slipped in the front door, closing it gently behind him. He reeked of sex and wine and sweat and if Riza gave him a kiss she'd know exactly where his mouth had been half the night. Thankfully she didn't wake up.

He loved her. He really, really loved Riza, but—

She would only let go of her reserve so far…so far and no further. And besides,' he told himself, he was never sure if she was making love to him or pretending he was someone else, someone she flat out wasn't going to have.

So…maybe he couldn't justify it…but _damn_ it was good to be wanted, craved, coaxed and teased. And she _shaved_ it…and showed it off to him, demonstrating _exactly _where she wanted his tongue. If he'd even suggested Riza do such a thing she'd have shoved the barrel of her service revolver up his ass and emptied the clip.

Or would she….?

###

Nina was tired when she came in. Her brother was foraging in the kitchen for snacks when she greeted him on her way in search of a cup of chamomile and spearmint tea to help her rest. "How's Sheska doing with the book?"

"She's done—and done in. I told Sebastian to set her up in the guest room. She's earned a good night's sleep."

Nina tilted her head and studied her brother's expression. "Not good, I take it?"

"Dad's gonna crap live kittens—and Uncle Roy-well, he's gonna tell us it doesn't matter until he finds out some of the stuff in there. And y'know, the really bad part is she's got it all wrong."

"Well of course she got it wrong, you numbskull! That…that…_twat_…is doing a hatchet job on our stepdad. I'm not sure I can read it without sedation, myself."

"Nobody picks on your 'Wroy'" her brother teased gently. "And nobody messes with Dad—or Uncle Al…or Aunt Riza—or even Grandpa Hohenheim."

"You have a plan, I take it?"

He tugged on his ponytail. "I'm open to suggestions."

"You want to sleep on it, or should I make some coffee and grab my notebook?"

It was nearly 4am when Maes noticed the light in the office. There was faint snoring from the other side of the door.

Tiptoing in, he saw his father and stepfather, snoring softly in each other's arms on the sofa. Neither one had taken off his reading glasses and the books were still in their hands.

He carefully folded up both pairs of spectacles and placed them beside the bookmarked texts. He smiled fondly at the pair. _I'm a lucky feller_ he told himself. _Cared for by these two. About damn time I pay some of that back…._

###

"I come about the janitor job?"

The young man—a student, it looked like, wore a neat cap over his long chestnut hair and there was a slight greenish tint to his wire-rimmed glasses. He was pointing at the sign in the window of Dickon and Howe and Sons Publishing that read NOW HIRING CLEANING STAFF—NIGHT SHIFT WANTED. "Eh….need something to make ends meet between classes, son?"

"Aye, sir," the boy nodded, tugging his cap and smiling. He had a pleasant face and a backwoods provincial Southern accent. "Used t'mop up my Grandad's butcher shop. Powerful lot of cleaning, that was. An' I'm _strong_. Payin' my own way through school. Workin' afternoons sweeping and moppin' the classrooms at the Hohenheim." He flashed a winning grin. "Give me a chance, eh?"

The manager looked him up and down. Good broad shoulders, and honest calluses on his hands. His clothes were plain but neat and clean and the eyes behind those tinted lenses were wide and sincere. "Fair enough, son. What's your name?"

"Call me Curtis. Urey Curtis. Named for both my granddads."

"Right, then, Curtis. Be back at nine, sharp. Tea break at midnight. Lock up at two."

"Will do, sir—and I give you my word," he laid his hand over his breast pocket where his supply of alchemical chalk was stashed, "I'll do you such a good job cleanin' up you won't know the place when I'm done!" He was touching his cap and backing out the door when he accidentally collided with a slender, bookish-looking girl whose brown hair was pinned up in a knot on her head.

"This where they's hiring?

"Yeh, might do. Only they just took me on!" he snapped his braces proudly.

"Right, but you don't seem the type to put a high polish on things, son." She offered her hand to the manager. "I'm Chris," she told him bluntly. "Chris Renback. I'm a Rush Valley girl and used to polish up the automail in my stepdad's shop. You want that lobby to shine like sun on steel, I'm your girl—and I work nights if you need me." A piece of chalk dropped out of her skirt pockets. "I work part time in the café on campus—I was chalking out the menu board before I got here. Well?" Her dark eyebrows arched sharply. "You going to take me on or not?"

Her penetrating green stare unnerved the manager. "Yes…yes, Miss Renback. You and Curtis here can start tonight at nine."

Maes and Nina Elric shook hands. "I suppose so—as long as this brute stays out of my way when I've got mopping to do."

"Awww, not to worry, _Miss Christmas_. I'm sure after 'while we'll get on like brother and sister!"

….TO BE CONTINUED…


	8. Chapter 8

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 8: A BOOT UP YOUR GEARS

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

In the end Roy made no comment at all. He thanked Sheska sincerely for her hard and dedicated work, nodded to his furious lover and anxious children and walked quietly out of the office, out the back door and disappeared. Sheska stuttered out her apologies. Ed told her simply she had nothing to beg pardon for.

"It could be worse," Maes suggested. "A _lot_ worse." Ed would have snapped out an angry retort, but he knew that his son hadn't seen what he himself had seen—including what Roy could not have seen himself, having been blinded by Truth at the time. It was clear to Maes and Nina that their father was deeply upset and Maes bit off his impulse to start babbling and protesting. If he learned nothing else from Nana 'Zumi it was to know when to shut the hell up and when to speak up, at least around their hot-tempered father and mother. Nina shook her head, looking understandably agitated.

Finally, Edward laid his hand on his son's shoulder. "There's much she _doesn't_ know—and that 's good. There's no detail about the battle with Father, since any survivors were military and debriefed before leaving the field. But the information about the national array, the undead army and the killing of Bradley…she's linking it all back to Roy, and she's doing it so well she _had_ to get help from someone."

"Or someone's records, maybe?" Maes impatiently yanked at the elastic that held his hair until it tumbled loosely around his shoulders. "That Old Guard geezer who tried to kill me when I was a little snot. "

"_Edison,"_ Nina echoed.

Sheska rubbed tired eyes behind her heavy lenses. "Could it have been anyone else, Ed? And how did she get a copy of his journal if he's dead? Didn't Intelligence confiscate all his stuff when he was arrested?"

Ed scowled. "I don't _know_. I'll have Hawkeye find out. In the meantime—" He turned his eyes towards the door his lover had just exited through. "We better give Roy some time to get hold of himself. At least we haven't heard any explosions."

"Yet," Sheska amended.

"Yeah. I'm gonna give him some space, let him cool down and then—"

"_We got night jobs at Dickon and Howe." _Nina blurted out.

Maes rolled his eyes. "Ohhh, tell the fucking _world_, Nitwit!"

Ed's head jerked towards his son, mouth dropping open. "You _WHAT?_"

Maes' hands shot up as if to shield himself from an incoming missile. "We haven't _done_ anything. I…I mean, I heard they were hiring cleaning people and—"

"—we dressed up and gave them false identities. We got a rinse-out tint for Maes' hair from Gracia and some colored eyeglass lenses to hide his eyes—"

"—oh, and I'm getting some brand new _corneal_ lenses from Dr. Feinbloom—Dad, they are _amazing!_ They aren't glass—we've got this new polymer called polymethyl methacrylate and they don't even have to cover the whole eye surface! Mine won't have correction, but he could make some so you—"

"—Tinker, you're waffling again—"

"—well, he might want to give up his specs if these work out—"  
—and I made myself look pretty grim and dowdy—and—"

"—we got taken on the cleaning crew. We start tonight…_sir_." Sheska scooted her chair back several feet. If Maes was addressing his father as 'sir' the boy already knew himself to be neck deep in serious trouble.

Nina's green eyes were glistening. "Daddy, it's not like we were planning to blow the place up." She glared at her brother. "_I_ wasn't, anyway. Just to reconnoiter, see what we can find out. Nothing more illegal," her finger tapped the galley proof, "than Ruby _borrowing_ a review copy that shouldn't have left somebody's office. Daddy, we _can't_ let this…_trollop_—"

"—oh, call her a cunt and be done with it," Maes snapped.

"TINKER! Language!" Nina looked offended. "This…_person_…we don't want her to undo all the good that Poppy's done. "If we can get inside that office-Daddy, it…it's something _you_ would have done, right?"

"And maybe we can find a way to buy us some time to come up with a better solution?" Maes offered. "Some way to…I don't know… stop her from publishing it…or maybe get her to edit it for the sake of national security?"

Sheska nodded eagerly. "It does sound like something you and Al would have done, Ed."

'Yeah," Ed looked bitter. "And we all know how fuckin' _great_ my judgment is. Let's see-transmuted my mother, stuck my brother's soul in a suit of armor—gee, the list goes on and on and on-"

"-you raised _us_. We've turned out rather well." Nina glanced at her older brother. "_Mostly."_

"And you know," Maes added, "if you hadn't followed your gut instincts, every damn man and woman and child in this country would still be dead-and Uncle Al would still be in the Gateway. So stop beating yourself up."

Ed studies the two earnest expressions that confronted him. For all their mad schemes and collaborations, his children had a remarkable amount of common sense—something they sure as hell didn't inherit from their impulsive biological parents. Izumi and Pinako had a hand in that, to be sure, but it was Roy who taught them to think and plan. If they had already gone this far, he hoped, they wouldn't do anything that might get them killed or thrown in jail. "All right," he said slowly. "I don't like it worth a damn, but maybe some good can come out of it. But," his frown deepened, " if I even _think_ you've done something that hurts anybody-"

'Dad!" Maes looked shocked.

"The very idea!" his daughter huffed. "We're not even planning to damage property—"

"—much," Maes corrected. "I mean…hell, I'm not above putting the ol' boot up the gears that might slow or halt production until they figure out a technical problem-nothing spectacular; y'know. "

Ed looked confused. "Boot up the gears?"

Nina looked smug. "In Aerugo there was a labor revolt in the silk mills back in the 1500's.

The workers weren't happy that the new technology might take away their livelihood so they threw their boots—their _saboti_—into the wooden gears to break the cogs and stop the weaving machines. They coined a term for it—"

Maes was grinning now. "Yeah. _Sabotage."_

Their father was silent for a very long time. "Elrics," he finally murmured, " aren't known for their bright ideas, son. Maybe you should stay out of this." His son and daughter didn't answer. After a time he rubbed his face wearily. "But you won't. How could you? You're like me. Too goddamned much like me, the pair of you." He rose slowly, shaking his head. "If anyone gets hurt—in any way-I won't bail you out. This is your decision-you're going to have to live with it. And we Elrics," he added over his shoulder as he walked out of the office, " live a very, _very_ long time."

###

Breda and his team of image crafting strategists ringed a table piled high with memos, notes, half-chewed pencils, stale donuts and half-empty coffee cups. He scrubbed at his rusty brush cut and ruefully mused that the fact that the silver hairs that were out-numbering the ginger these days was due in a large part to the individuals listed on the program in front of him:

_Donal Samuelson, Master of Ceremonies._ Donal knew everybody who was anybody. Hosted _Midday Amestris_ weekdays on Radio Capital, penned a column syndicated by the _Times_ in all five areas, and was now doing feature interviews with the politicos and celebrities of the day for the Radio Capital weekend program _Monitor_ and on the nightly news digest show _Eye on Amestris_. Looked good in a tux, had a huge fan base and could be counted upon to keep things lively and entertaining without crossing the line into the sort of crass nudge-and-wink sort of roasting that Mustang wanted to avoid. "On the down side," Breda admitted to Havoc, "the man's in his drink so much he's grown gills, so coffee in the green room and have the stagehands check for liquor stashes." Havoc agreed to keep Samuelson on point and off the sauce.

_Maestro Leopold Williams_, _conductor of the Central Symphony and Chorus_. Affectionately referred to as 'the old fossil', Williams was a notorious martinet who was rumored to have pressured one high strung soprano to jump off the roof of the music conservatory with his scathing evaluation of her voice. "I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole," Nina Elric had said, having narrowly survived a summer session of youth orchestra under his baton. "I would," her brother had answered tartly, " but only if it had a very sharp point on the end." The Hohenheim Institute Youth Orchestra would perform magnificently, even if they might need months of therapy afterwards. His composition for Mustang's inauguration, _Fanfare for the Common Amestrian_, was magnificent and even tone deaf Havoc said it sent chills up his spine. The piece would be reprised with full orchestra and children's choir and as far as the Boss was concerned would be the high mark of the event.

"Not the most agreeable person you may have dealt with," Falman observed. "I'll volunteer to assist the Maestro. Hopefully we won't encounter any unpleasantness."

_Duke Brubeck_, _jazz pianist_. One of Mustang's personal favorites, and one of the most critically acclaimed artists of their day. Mustang tended to prefer the more complex, sophisticated forms of popular music. High brow intellectual who never took his sunglasses off and whose rambling diatribes were possibly fueled by some rather peculiar smelling tobacco that he imported from Xing that tended to make him ravenous and incoherent after a few pipefulls. "I'll work with him," Fuery offered. "Maybe I can get him to sign one of his records for me."

_The Altoid Sisters_. Radio stars Margi, Maci, and Mazi Altoid sang popular songs in close harmony, sported upswept hairdos and high heels. They had marvelous voices but got a little touchy about propriety, being strict Letoists and having been carefully shepherded through their recording and radio career by their father Lloyd. Mr. Altoid's over-protectiveness of his three virgin daughters went to gun-toting extremes even Hughes would have found excessive. "I'm sure there won't be any problems," Maria Ross assured them. "I'll meet with Mr. Altoid tomorrow and assure him that his daughters won't be exposed to any undesirable company, or anyone," here she glanced pointedly at Alphonse," likely to seduce them."

Alphonse sat up, looking hurt. "Likely to seduce them? Ohh, I like that!" he snapped.

"I'll just bet you would, you letch!" she shot back. "That's why you're with Gladys Turlough. You can't break something that's already _broken_—if you catch my drift! And you can also keep your paws off the girls from Ballet Vaginanova—"

"That's Vaganova," Alphonse corrected. "Not _Vagina_nova. Vaginanova is lesbian political satire performance art troupe out of Stoltovgrad that—"

"Back on track, people!" Breda clapped his hands. "So, we've got the symphony and chorus, Brubeck's jazz quintet, the ballet, the Altoid sisters, Professor Sherman Lehrer—"

"You've invited him?" Havoc blinked in surprise. "Have you actually heard any of the songs he's sung about the Boss? Some of them are outrageous!"

"That's the point," Breda explained patiently. "He's a full fledged professor at the Hohenheim who does political satire and song parodies. After all the songs he's targeted about Mustang, inviting him is proof that Roy Mustang can laugh at himself."

"Did you hear his song about Mustang during the war-'Hold My Purse While I Save The World"?" Havoc stubbed out his cigarette. " I swear, if the Prof had written something like that about Bradley, he'd have cut off Lehrer's nuts, transmuted them into two chimeras and let them eat the Prof's asshole out!"

"Roy's agreed to it," Alphonse pointed out, "so we can't un-invite him. So that leaves us with Gladys Turlough."

Havoc's ears turned crimson at the mention of her name. "She's _great!"_ he blurted out with more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. "I—I mean, she's a really great addition to the show."

Breda caught Alphonse's eye. "Any trouble with her, Al?"

Havoc wasn't fooling Alphonse, who could detect female pheromones percolating a kilometer away. Gladys Turlough oozed musk whenever Havoc was around and while it wasn't his place to advise another man to keep it in his pants Alphonse didn't like to think about what this would do to Hawkeye when she finally got wind of this little affair. He genuinely cared for both Riza and Jean and the last thing he wanted was to see them break up. "No trouble at all," he admitted. "I've seen the gown she's planning to wear—it's within the bounds of public decency, and she sings pretty well. Oh, by the way, she says that there's going to be an executive from PanAmestris Studios in the audience at the gala. He's negotiating with her to do a historical drama—her first serious film, so she's pretty excited. She's got too much riding on this to misbehave."

Breda looked serious. "I'm counting on you, Alphonse. Keep her out of trouble." He looked exhausted. "We gotta keep Donal off the booze, Brubeck off the—the—well, whatever the hell it is he's smoking, keep the Maestro from traumatizing the kids in the orchestra, keep the ballerinas in their tutus and the Altoids intact-and pray to whatever that Professor Sherman doesn't rip out another song like the one about 'millitary doggie-style' like he did after the Press Corps gala two years ago. Now if Miss Turlough can keep her knockers moored inside her dress and her hemline below her ears….we'll have a show. Meeting adjourned!"

###

She fretted and fussed over forgetting to put the cream cheese on the dainty cucumber sandwiches she offered him. She spilled her tea, apologized profusely for the sweet biscuits being slightly burned on the bottom. "Selim made them very nicely. He just forgets to check the oven when the bell goes off," she explained.

Roy nodded graciously, assuring them both that everything was fine. "The biscuits are very good, Selim. And you made them yourself?"

The young man nodded eagerly. "I used measuring cups and everything," he told the President gravely. "I didn't spill. I didn't make a mess at all. But I let them cook too long."

"Next time you might put the timer in your pocket so you can hear it ring," Roy suggested kindly and Selim beamed at him. "And if you are learning to cook I believe I have my daughter's cook book in the kitchen at Rose Hill. The recipes are very easy and simple and there are lots of pictures. I'm sure she would be glad to lend it to you and you will be able to make all sorts of nice things for your mother's tea. Would you like that?"

Selim turned excited eyes to his mother, who nodded her permission. "You must take very good care of the book, son," she told him. "And you can write a thank you note to Miss Nina for letting you use it. "

"I will! Oh, I will!" The expression his face was pathetic in its gratitude. Inwardly, Roy was dismayed. It was good that Selim was learning new skills, but it was clear Mrs. Bradley was having a difficult time caring for the house, let alone her son. He sipped his tea, bitter from over-brewing, and chose his words very carefully. "Selim, your mother tells me you like to read to her. I think she would really enjoy a story—and I would too. Would you like to get one of your books?"

Waiting again for permission, Selim happily dashed down the hall, leaving his adopted mother anxiously twisting her linen napkin in hands that trembled with more than age.

"Don't kill my son. _Please_…I'm begging you!" She blurted out the words and was unable to suppress the sob that followed them. "He's everything—he's all I've got left."

That wasn't strictly true. She had King Bradley's generous pension. She could have had servants at no hardship but had dismissed them, preferring to care for the house and her son by herself. Roy admired her self-sufficiency, but it impaired her ability to care for herself and her son now that age was taking its toll on her mind.

Roy put down his cup. "Mrs. Bradley, I'm not here as your son's executioner. The only—the _only_—conditions that might warrant…_measures_…would be if Pride reasserted itself through him—in which event he would not only be a danger to himself and to you but to all of mankind. And I have been observing him since before Fuhrer Grumman retired and I have as yet to see any indications that Pride is returning. What I observe," he leaned forward for emphasis, "is a young man who is trying very hard to take care of his mother-and a mother who has not let her son's disadvantages prevent him from living a useful life." He took her hand gently. It was chilled with fear. "The only pride that is at issue here is your own, Madame. It is time you agreed to let someone help you. Someone who can take over the cooking and cleaning and help you manage Selim."

She looked genuinely alarmed. "I couldn't! No—there's nobody I could trust-"

"—even if I personally vouch for them? Someone whom I trusted with the safety of my own children?"

That made her pause. "This…this is someone you know?"

Roy nodded. "A boy who once took a bullet to save the life of my son. Out of gratitude I arranged work for him so he could support his sick father. He began running odd jobs and eventually came to Rose Hill to train under my butler and manservant Sebastian. This," he gestured around him, "is too much of a house for you to manage now. You never should have tried on your own. And there's no sense uprooting you and Selim to a smaller home. Collins has been serving in our household for the past two years as concierge—which means he not only has been trained to manage a household efficiently but under Sebastian he has been cross trained in security. Above all," Roy added, glancing over his shoulder to see if Selim had returned, "he is nothing if not discreet. He came up the hard way in the streets. He's done well and I have no qualms about putting him at your disposal. In fact, it would be one less thing to worry about." A charming, boyish smile played briefly across his face. "You are a very brave and compassionate lady, Mrs. Bradley, and your country owes you much. I would consider it an honor to assign David Collins to your service. Are we agreed?"

David Collins. They called him Dogshit Davy once upon a time, before Chris Mustang caught him poking at a dead man with a stick in the alley behind her restaurant. On the day that Edison took Elycia hostage it was Davy Collins who pulled Maes out of the line of fire when the madman tried to kill him. Roy had given him employment and he'd turned out well-and utterly loyal to Roy and the Elrics. Having Collins at close range, observing Selim, would be one less thing for Roy to worry about. And thanks to the years of polish under Sebastian's tutelage Collins could observe and report and serve with gracious effortlessness. Mrs. Bradley and Selim would be under surveillance, Collins would gain experience and the question about what to do with the last surviving homunculus could be held off for a while yet.

After all, Roy thought grimly as Selim began to slowly read them "The Seven Xingese Brothers", I have enough blood on my hands—enough to last a lifetime.

###

'Tell me, have you ever hunted a bear?" A measure of best brandy splashed in a simple soldier's tin cup. "Hunting bear and plotting a political strategy are much the same. You begin, if you have any sense, observing the behavior of the cub. Is it cowardly? Does it risk danger? Does it cower when its mother cuffs it? Can it fend for itself? Or does it turn predator and steal the catch of its brothers?"

"I'm not sure I follow you…"

"Oh, I think you do. Watch the cub. Watch it reach adulthood. Learn its habitats and its habits. Observe it through the seasons."

"That would take years."

"It does take years. Sometimes it takes the best part of a lifetime. At first it will catch your scent on the wind, but as the years pass it takes your scent for granted. You become an afterthought. And that's when you strike."

"And how long have you been watching Roy Mustang?"

"Long enough. He's stepped outside his own hunting habitat and he's stretched himself very, very thin. Now," the glass lifted in salute to the man currently holding the presidency, "let us see if he's up for one last battle. Let's see if he's willing to fight to sit behind that grand desk of his a while longer." The companions swallowed after clinking their cups together. "Let the hunt begin."

###

"Bit o' nasty gunge under there, see those vats, mates?" The tall feller with the cloth cap dunked his mop in to the filthy water and wrung it out. " Must be a leak in that ink vat. I'll get down there-oy, Jamie! Gimme a fresh pail full, will ya? No sense makin' it worse."

As soon as the other mop boy had gone to rinse out the bucket, Maes whipped out his chalk and the work gloves with the arrays embroidered inside. "Carbon…water…ethyl alcohol, lac resin," he whispered under his breath. "Let's see what we can make of this, hmmm?" There was a brief flash of bluish light, and by the time Jamie got back all he could see was a very grimy "Curtis" scrubbing dutifully at the dried crusted stains, dusty from head to toe.

Meanwhile the typeset plates for "Fire and Vice" were stacked vertically on several pallets in the warehouse near the supply room. Nina slipped into the shadows,, a stick of chalk clutched in her sweaty fingers. She was angry enough to want to transmute the whole mountain of metal into a pile of slag but that wouldn't solve anything. Instead, she modified the crystalline structure of the plates so that the weight of the stack would flatten out the characters enough to make them print illegibly. When the rubber print rollers were impressed by the plates the resulting pages would have to be discarded.

The slim phantom with the dust rags and the grimy mop boy went home by different routes and Nina helped her brother scrub the brown rinse out of his mane. "The ink's not going to adhere to the rollers," Maes crowed.

"And the plates will have to be melted down and recast. Good. Now what?"

"That's going to buy us a little time."

"Little time is all we have left, brother," Nina fretted. "And don't forget we need to make sure we're off for the gala. Poppy's going to need our support."

"Yeah, well, 'Poppy' would tan our hides if he knew what we were up to." Maes toweled his locks dry. "Anyway, good night's work, Nitwit. Now, let me tell you what I've thought of for _tomorrow_ night…."

###

"Scoot over."

Ed cracked one eye open. "So I'm taking my half of the bed in the middle. You got a problem with that, Mustang?"

"Fine. I'll have to lay on top of you."

Ed rolled onto his back and burrowed his face into his pillow. "You won't be comfortable. Suit your damn self."

Roy did as he'd threatened. It took a bit of shifting until he fitted against his lover's back—and, holy of holies, found precisely the right spot to nestle several inches of annoyingly heated flesh that needed exactly the right soft of place to nestle into. _"Mmmm?"_

'Hmmmmph!"

Roy's hips began to churn slowly, rocking up and down along the heated cleft. Beneath him, Edward parted his thighs. "Mmm?"

"Ummmhmmmmm!"

Roy shifted again, pushing thin fabric out of the way. Foraging in the bedside drawer he found something suitably slick. He generously slicked what needed slicking. "Hm?"

_'Um!"_ Then, "_Ah!"_, followed by "Ohhhhh….."

Ed arched back, then tightened wickedly in rhythmic pulses, something he'd learned in one of Al's weird sex manuals he'd rather die than admit having flipped through. Granted, the trick known as 'The Snapper" had been an instruction for women…but if his theory was correct…

"AIIIIIEEEEE!AHH-ahh!Ahh!"

Apparently it was. He did it again. And again. Arms laced around his chest and the breathing in his ear was ragged and hot. "Hhhhnnnnnn….hahhh…ohhhh…ohhhh…oh..FUCK! _FUCKSHITAAAAHHHAAHHHHFUUUUUU CKKKKKKK!"_

Warm wet towel cleaned him front and back. Warm dry towel followed after. Ed let his blissfully limp body be rolled so a fold of dry, clean sheet was under him. Roy curled against his side, one arm and leg curled possessively around him. The other eye cracked open. Ed smiled in the dark. "Okay, so today sucked. Tomorrow will be okay, old man. Get some rest."

"Mmmmmmm…..mmm…mm….snzzzzzzzz….snzzzzz….zzzzz"

…..TO BE CONTINUED….


	9. Chapter 9

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 9: DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy was startled when his stepson burst into his office at nine a.m., three days before his birthday gala. "Uncle Roy!" he crowed, "I drove past the book store and guess what? They've pulled down the sign about Kelley Winchell's book! I called about it, and they told me that they've changed the shipping date! Isn't that incredible!"

His stepfather's face expression was most peculiar but his tone was nonchalant. "I'm sure it's still coming out."

"Yes, but not on your birthday! Aren't you relieved?"

"It's been….postponed. I…I…ah…suppose that's better than nothing." He drew in his breath sharply. "Right. Thanks for letting me know. Now if you'll excuse me, son, I have to get back to work."

The young man's shoulders sagged a little. "Okay. Sheesh, I thought you'd be happy." He turned to leave, then swung back around, a suspicious look on his youthful features. He rapped hard on the top of the President's desk with his knuckles. "'Bye, Dad. Don't hit your head on the underside of the desk drawer." Maes was grinning now. "You guys," he sighed dramatically and strolled out of the office, whistling off key.

###

"That…._bastard!_ That low-down, conniving, cocksucking son of a bitch!"

Kelley Winchell slammed down the receiver so hard she broke it, as well as one perfectly lacquered nail. If she had had a dog in her town house she'd have kicked it halfway to East City out of sheer frustration. She glanced around but there was nothing within reach that would make enough noise when flung across the room so she pummeled the sofa cushions and rained curses on the publishing house of Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons.

The _entire_ first run—_ruined!_

"I'm so sorry, Miss Winchell," her publisher had told her, "The offset print wasn't making a clean impression and the pages that were rolled out were not legible-"

'—I have a contract! I have a contract!" Winchell snarled into the phone. "I delivered my manuscript on time. I followed _my_ end of the deal!"

"—indeed, and we at Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons greatly appreciate your professionalism. No, this was a mechanical error, and we at Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons greatly regret the delay," Mr. Howe babbled. "I give you my word that Dewey, Dickon and Howe and—"

"—and Sons-you sound like a fucking _parrot_, you know that?" she growled, her fingers twisting in the phone cord. If Howe had come to her place and told her to her face she'd have had the satisfaction of splitting his scalp with a crystal ashtray flung from ten paces. "When my lawyer gets through with you-"

"—he will point out the line item in your contract with Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons that absolves us from any liability in the event of natural disaster or mechanical failure. Now," Mr. Howe was regaining his composure. "we can offer compensation in the form of a reprint of one of your previous bestsellers with Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons—or we can offer you-"

"I'll see you in court!" she snarled before breaking off the conversation and breaking the phone at the same time. She would have to send her assistant out to replace it—and to put in a second line while they were at it. "I'm going out, Matilda!" she shouted. "I want the phone fixed by noon—no later, or you're fired. And get my lawyer on the horn—I don't care if you have to walk five flights and use the payphone at the front desk. You tell Mr. Babcock to find me a way to break that man's balls or _he's fired_. Is that clear?"

She was in a foul mood in the taxi as she sped across the city to Barnes and Walden Booksellers, and when she saw that they had already yanked her advertisement poster out of the window she was ready to storm in, handbag swinging, and start threatening litigation before she stopped herself. After all, she reconsidered, she was a literary lioness-she had fans that she did not want to antagonize. She composed her features and adjusted her hat, refreshed her blood-red lipstick and stepped into Barnes and Walden with an imperial wave and a thousand watt smile. "Hello, dahhhlings!" she cooed.

Nobody turned their heads.

She cleared her throat. "HELLO, MY DAHHHLINGS!" It was ten o'clock in the morning and the scant handful of customers were buying the national and foreign-language newspapers which Barnes and Walden imported from Drachma, Aerugo, Creta, Ishval and Xing.

In the corner there were several tables where shoppers could help themselves to fresh coffee and buy sweet rolls from Il Gattina's that were delivered every morning. A man in coveralls had his face buried in a Drachman newspaper, three empty paper cups of black coffee at his elbow. He peered around the page he was reading and lifted his eyebrows.

Winchell dashed over to him, beaming. "Hello, _dahhling_!" she gushed. "I'm _Kelley Winchell_," as if her name should mean something to him.

"Кто ебет вы?" (who the fuck are you?)

She released his hand and backed away, her smile looking a little bit forced. "Very nice to meet you." She spied a young woman, dressed like domestic in a heavy winter cap, flipping through the pages of an Aerugoan language guide. Surely she looked young enough and uneducated enough to be an avid reader. Winchell thrust out a bejeweled hand. "I know it must be dreadfully disappointing that my latest biography won't be delivered on time—but I'll be rescheduling my book signing and I hope you'll join us, won't you?"

The girl offered a charming smile and shrugged her shoulders. _"__Voglio mangiare escrementi di cane e dolorosamente, die tu prostituta. Rivolta a me."_ ("I want you to dine on dog excrement and die painfully, you woman who sells herself. I find you revolting.") The girl giggled and offered a dainty curtsey. Then her eyes lit up in recognition. "Kel-Kelley Winchella? I am right, si?" She pointed to the biography end cap where an assortment of Winchell's bestsellers were on prominent display. "Famoso-_famous—_Signora Winchella?" Winchell's eyes sparkled as she nodded. _"Signora Winchella! Famoso!"_ The girl impetuously hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. She snatched a paper napkin from the coffee counter. "Autografe, per favore?" She held out a fountain pen with such a pleading smile that Winchell could not refuse.

"It's so wonderful to meet my fans from all over the world," she gushed. "What is your name?"

The girl looked puzzled for a moment then smiled eagerly. "Name? _Il nome? Oh, sì – il mio nome è Lucrezia._" Winchell repeated her name and scribbled a dedication on the napkin. "Lucrezia" curtseyed again. _"Vi incoraggio ad avere relazioni coniugali con un maiale. I seni sono falsi, tu non hai talento e hai il rossetto sui denti. Vi sconfiggeremo. Buongiorno!"_(" I encourage you to have marital relations with a pig. Your breasts are fake, you have no talent and you have lipstick on your teeth. I will defeat you. Good morning.")

As soon as Winchell roared away in her famous pink brougham the girl and the young man with the news paper hugged each other, carefully pocketing the autograph. Maes gently tugged a loose strand of his sister's chestnut hair. "Nice job,_Lucretia._Like she has any clue who Queen Lucretia of Aerugo was—or what she did to her enemies in the 17th century."

"I positively draw the line at thumbscrews and poison—and that business about the rat cages," Nina shuddered. "However, I quite applaud her personal motto: 'Ci insultano a vostro rischio e pericolo'" ('Insult Us At Your Peril")

###

"Professor Elric? You have a delivery. It requires a signature."

"Huh?" Ed shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Ruby had buried him in backlogged paperwork and three of the Cretan guest professors were complaining that their office had no heat this morning and Winry and Pitt had wired that Granny Pinako was back in the hospital again—somehow he would have to get up there to see her in case…well…he wouldn't think about her dying. Granny was going to live forever, after all. All she needed was a little rest.

Collins knocked again. "Sir, I'm sorry, but this is that shipment you were expecting from Xing. This was dropped off from the Aerodrome an hour ago."

Ed nearly knocked the young apprentice butler on his backside as he shot out his office door. "Holy crap! I gotta get that to the meat locker right away—and don't let anybody open it! That's Roy's birthday present!"

"The meat locker, sir?" Collins looked bewildered as Ed yanked the clipboard out of his hands, scrawled his name and then anxiously inspected the box. 'No leakage. That's a relief. Gimme a hand with this, will ya?"

"I'll get a freight dolly, sir—and I'll inform Ramsay to make room. I daresay he may be cross over the short notice—"

Ramsay wasn't cross. He was _pissed._ "Bugger that, Professor!" he snapped. "You can't just come in here and have me heave out half a side of beef and all those steaks and chops for—what the hell IS that thing?"

"Your employer's 50th birthday present—and you have no fuckin' idea what I went through to get it. It's in a crock of liquid nitrogen and I need a place where it won't be disturbed."

###

Dr. Knox jammed the cotton-tipped swab down Jean Havoc's throat with the same force that Havoc would have rammed a barrel-swab up the nose of a rifle. "I can't get sick," Havoc rasped. "There's too much to do. Doc, you gotta get me some medicine and straighten me out!"

"Some soldier you are," Knox grumbled as he dabbed at a clean slide, covered it and slipped it under his microscope. "Anything else you need to whine about today?"

Havoc looked slightly abashed. "Yeah. I got a killer case of jock itch. I need some cream or something." Knox didn't answer, intent on the slide he was studying. "It's kinda…red down there…y'know?" Knox stepped away with a short bark of cynical laughter. He felt the glands in Havoc's neck then ordered him to drop his pants. "Can you give me some cream for that, Doc?" Havoc repeated as if the doctor was ignoring him. "Can you fix me up?"

Knox turned away and pulled something out of his medication cabinet. When he turned around he was holding up the biggest syringe and the longest needle Havoc had seen since he'd been hospitalized after Lust attacked him. He sucked in his breath abruptly. "Ah…heh heh…um…Doc? Is that supposed to cure my jock itch or my throat?"

"It's a cure for _Neisseria Gonorrhoeae_. "

"Nessy—_what?_"

"You've got the clap, son. Bad a dose as I've seen since the war." Havoc nearly bit his lower lip in half when the needle rammed into his backside. "Pull up your pants." Knox grabbed a pad and pen, scribbled something down and passed to the horrified Havoc. At the top of the sheet was written "LIST OF SEXUAL CONTACTS—CALL CEntral 69482". Dr. Knox had already written 'COLONEL RIZA HAWKEYE' on the list. "All your contacts need to be treated. Immediately. Have Colonel Hawkeye report first thing in the morning."

"Sh—sure thing, Doc." Havoc's insides turned over. "If she's not in the brig for shooting my nuts off."

###

All in all, it had been good. Damn good. And now she was tired.

She was in her ninth decade—"ninety and some spare change," she used to joke. There wasn't much that she had wanted to do that was left undone, other than perhaps enjoy watching a crop of great-great grands grow up. Neither Maes nor Nina was fool enough to rush into the kind of stupid, half thought out entanglements that had made Edward and Winry miserable for those mercifully brief years of their marriage. Still, it would have been nice to see the next generation of Rockbell children. Winry had given her seven great grandchildren by two good men and she was proud of every last one of 'em. And in spite of all odds, Ed and Winry had made peace at last and Winry had finally quit chasing Alphonse and had settled down with the right man in the end.

It had been a good life and she was ready to close the book and lay it aside and rest—but not for long. She didn't know what lay beyond the Gateway but the Pantheress of Resembool relished the idea of finding out. Sometimes when she dreamed she could see old friends and loved ones smiling and hear them laughing and calling out to welcome her. _Urey. Sara. Trisha. That old reprobate Hohenheim—she could still drink him under the table. Faust and his limonchello, Dominic le Coulte—ohhh, could he face her now? And her long dead husband, Doc Rockbell who never tried to tame the Pantheress but kept up with her until the day he died—smiling—in her bed._ Her friends. Her lovers. Her child. It would be good to see them again.

Of course, Winry was making a fuss. Wouldn't be Winry if she didn't. "You'll be up and out of that bed in no time." "Don't be silly, Granny! You're going to live forever!"

Pitt was no fool and didn't try to hide it. "Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need…anyone you want-"

"I want to see the boys—and Maes and Nina. Roy's got some big fuss about his fiftieth birthday—"

"—and I know Roy Mustang well enough to know he'll understand." Pitt patted Pinako's hand in a way that didn't annoy her. Pitt had been the best blessing in the last decade of her life: a man who was a true son to her, and so like Urey in spirit she couldn't have wished for a better husband for Winry even if she still cast occasional yearning glances at Alphonse after making her choice, since Alphonse and Julia hadn't tied the knot or started a family. No, Al had been wise to bring Julia home that Solstice, because seeing them together drove Winry straight into bed with Pitt with that same determination she'd shown towards Edward long before. This time, though, she'd bedded and bred with a man who was willing to give her the whole of himself, not just half a life.

Yes, she sighed with satisfaction. It all turned out just about right.

"Pitt? I want to talk to Roy. Can you get him on the phone for me?"

"Not Ed or Al?" Pitt looked puzzled.

She shook her head wearily. "I want to talk to Roy—and don't take all day getting him on the phone, either." She smiled. "I may not HAVE all day to wait on him…."

###

That's one of the perks I will shamelessly exercise as President, Roy mused as Sheska rang him up to announce that Donal Samuelson was on his way to Rose Hill for a live interview promised weeks ago. I make them come on _my_ turf, on my terms.

Not that Roy had to go begging for press. Even as a young rising star in the state military Roy had captured more than his share of the limelight, much to the chagrin of his senior officers. Now Radio Capital was not only broadcasting an interview with him it was being captured for newsreels that would be shown in theaters all over Amestris, even abroad.

The mirror congratulated him for eating right, working out and staying fit. Only a few faint touches of gray at his temples and his belly was washboard taut. Barely a whisper of laugh lines in the corners of his eyes—he'd looked older when he came back from the war. A decade and a half of mattress gymnastics with Edward and a soul-satisfying family life—and the odd gifts of being one of The Father's "sacrifices"—and he never felt better other than the aches of old wounds in his side and the palms of his hands.

His dress uniform fitted him to perfection and Sebastian had carefully cleaned all his battle ribbons and medals. Collins buffed his dress shoes to a dull sheen and there was not one single fingerprint on the scabbard of his sword. "Damn, I'm good looking," he told himself, and he was relieved he did not have to lie.

He knew from experience that they would roast under the hot arc lights needed for filming and accordingly ordered the windows in his office left open to the November chill. It might seem bitter when they set up but Donal and the crew would be thankful for it. Roy himself nearly passed out the first time—he was buttoned tight into that heavy wool uniform and the heat was as bad as the Ishballan desert where Donal had first interviewed Roy Mustang a lifetime ago…

_"What the hell-?" Maes had put down his beer and glanced over his shoulder. It was some captain from Signal Corps snapping pictures and talking with the troops for some heartwarming piece of half-fiction for the folks back home. Roy noticed the captain was carefully avoiding the wounded, focusing on sunburnt, sweaty men with good looks and maybe the odd cut or scrape on a photogenic chin or forehead. Maes brightened considerably, yanked a comb quickly through his thick black hair, wiped the beer foam off his lips and dashed over, all but shoving other soldiers out of the way to get the captain's attention. "If I get in the papers, maybe Gracia will see it," he shouted back to his lover._

_ Roy had cracked open another half-cold one and was chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of dried sausage made from some mysterious meat he'd prefer not to attempt to identify when the captain came over and saluted. "Major Mustang? Captain Samuelson, sir—Army Signal Corps. Sir, the folks back home have heard rumors about State Alchemists in the field—would you mind telling us a little bit about who the Alchemists are and how they are helping to win the war?"_

_ Oh, how he wanted to tell the truth. How he wanted to tell his—what, the kid couldn't be more than sixteen? Seventeen?—greenhorn "by roasting the innocent—and no, that's not a hunk of pork you smell roasting over a campfire. Those are children and their parents, asshole, and men like me lit the fires. How's that for a morale feature, huh?" He bit his lip, knocked back his beer and forced a smile for the camera…_

"….and welcome to _Eye On Amestris_. I'm Donal Samuelson, and tonight we are broadcasting live from the Presidential Palace in Central and we are honored to have as our guest this evening President—and former Fuhrer—Roy Mustang, who will be with us the full hour of our show to answer questions and, if our audio link is working, take some calls from our listeners. Mr. President, it's always an honor."

Roy offered back his most winning smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Donal. Of course, I _hear_ you every afternoon. _Midday Amestris_ is very popular with the ladies on my staff. In fact I would not be surprised if a few of them aren't waiting impatiently for us to finish this interview so they can get autographs."

They bantered back and forth cheerily for a minute or so and then Samuelson leaned in closer, ready to change to a meatier subject. "So, Mr. President…I don't believe anyone would debate that for a fifty year old man you certainly appear to be fighting fit and ready to take on all comers in the tough presidential race ahead. I've noticed that your opponents have been noticeably quiet up to this point, but the odds are that once your birthday gala is over and the candles have been blown out it's going to get messy. Just how far are you willing to go to insure you stay in office?"

Roy looked thoughtful. "Why, Donal, you make this sound like a battle for control. I don't see the presidency in those terms. The presidency is a position of _service_ more than power. As we move towards democracy, more of the power per se will pass to Parliament, whose representatives will be elected by the people, not appointed any more. My intention is—and always has been—to serve the best interests of Amestris and her people. THEY are the ones who will decide whom they wish to serve. And as far as an election being 'messy'…slinging mud and stabbing backs is childish and distracting. I intend to pursue a clean campaign. I would hope any serious candidate would follow a similar set of ethics."

"You're aware that there is a book that is coming out—or rather, _was_ coming out—this week by best-selling author Kelley Winchell that claims to blow the lid off the Mustang presidency and your involvement with the plot to overthrow Fuhrer Bradley. I am one of the few who has actually read the early proofs of this book, and in all honesty, Mr. President, she makes a very compelling case against you."

Roy was unruffled. "I regret that I don't really have time to read popular _fiction_, which is how I tend to regard sensationalistic biographies of public figures. I understand it is a very lucrative way of making a living, rather like those old stories of men who would unearth the bodies of the dead in order to loot the bodies of any jewelry and steal the brass plates off the coffins. Distasteful, but profitable. If she is as popular as I am led to believe it would be refreshing to see her turn her talents towards actual news reportage. Failing that," his smile became subtly cynical, " perhaps she could write children's books. That's a profession in which the knack for telling a tall tale can be entertaining without 'looting corpses' or attempting to destroy lives."

"You regard her exposés as ghoulish? That's rather strong language."

Roy lifted a cautioning finger, still smiling. "Tell me, Donal-you've been an insider in the field of information since you were in the Signal Corps during the Isballan war. In fact, you were the first to ever interview me, there on the battlefield, which was widely read as the first in-depth story on the lives of State Alchemists. It was a laudable piece, as I recall-and that was due to your painstaking research into the lives of those called to serve the nation as State Alchemists. It wasn't an altogether pretty picture—but it was accurate and well received by all sides. Now," Roy inclined himself slightly towards Samuelson, encroaching subtly on his space, "I have known Former Fuhrer President Grumman for a great many years. I have served proudly with Alex Louis Armstrong and while General Olivier Armstrong and I have often held opposing views I have never questioned her patriotism or her outstanding skills as a commanding officer. Not one of them was ever approached by Miss Kelley or her research staff when she wrote her alleged exposés of their lives. Nor was I approached-nor was my family or personal staff. Presenting second or third—or fourth-hand—rumor and innuendo as fact and selling it to the public as entertainment is unethical at best and offensive at worst."

"So the publication was not delayed, as rumored, by threats from your personal aides?"

"Absolutely not. Anyone on my staff that would do such a thing would find themselves at the unemployment bureau in short order. As I have stated in the past, I believe in a free press. Miss Winchell is free to publish her…creative interpretations…of the lives of others. And Amestrians are free to support her if they choose. But," his expression became smooth and the warmth evaporated from his voice, "it is important that the readers consider the source. I'm sure the average citizen would not enjoy having their reputations speculated on by their neighbors—oh, look, there's Mary! Did you hear that she has a terrible drinking problem? And there's James—they say he's a terrible wife beater!" The smile slide back artfully over his handsome features. "And nobody telling the tale has even bothered to talk to Mary or James. Would they enjoy it? I seriously doubt it. Besides," he added with a wink towards the camera, "the truth is always more interesting than fiction. And it makes for better reading."

It was during the second half of the program that one of the engineers handed a note to Samuelson. He glanced at it and nodded. He handed it to Roy who suddenly looked very concerned. "My apologies, Donal, to you and our audience. I'm afraid that I will have to cut this short"

"Understood, Mr. President, and I want to thank you for inviting us into your home for this interview. Ladies and Gentlemen, when we return from commercial we'll open the phone lines for your comments-so please, don't touch that dial! This is Donal Samuelson-and you're listing to _Eye on Amestris_…."

###

"Sorry to ruin your birthday, Roy, but I need the boys—and the kids."

"Dr. Pinako…ma'am….are you sure…?"

"Well, I was hoping to make it to a hundred, but…what the hell. Wish they'd let me have my pipe in here. And a dog-not right not to have a dog here. Maybe I'll see Den when I see that damned Gateway Ed and Al keep talking about." She paused to cough. "Anyway, do this old lady one last favor and send my kids home. I want to say goodbye…but more than that, Ed needs to know it's okay…I'm tired and I'm ready and he needs to know there's nothing to be sad about this."

"Havoc has already called the airfield. There's an airship to East City leaving at 10 o'clock. I'll have a military escort meet them upon arrival and get them straight to Resembool. However," he added with a soft chuckle, "you have to give me your word that you'll stay long enough for them to say goodbye."

There was a rusty laugh on the other end. "I'll do my damndest. If I miss 'em, tell Ed and Al I loved 'em like they were my own—and I'm proud of them. Tell Maes and Nina to take care of their dad-Ed's not going to take this well. You know how he is."

"Yes ma'am. And…thank you….for everything…_Granny_."

"You're a handful and a headache, Roy Mustang, but you're family too." Her voice was faint but there was an unmistakable fondness in her tone. "Thank you for raising the kids right and keeping Ed out of trouble."

"I'll take care of them, I promise."

"Thanks, Roy. Goodnight."

Goodnight, Granny. Safe journey."

"See you when I see you, son."

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	10. Chapter 10

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 10: _"HERE"_

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

_Everything that lives has to die. That is the nature of this world_

_A soul impacts other souls and lives on in other hearts_

_Everything in this world flows and circulates—that goes for human lives as well_

_ -Izumi Curtis_

Nina Elric wasn't good at crying. Would have been so much easier to just break down and sob like Uncle Al, or to let the tears silently flow like Tinker. Instead her grief was like a cold lump inside her chest and a sick, jittery feeling in her stomach….just like her father.

_She's ninety-four. We're lucky to have had her this long. Nana Zumi taught us that life only flows in one direction and that death is nothing to fear. But it's so….heavy….inside me. _

"Nina? Honey? I've got your bags packed, dear. Do you want to check to see if I've left anything out?" Gracia slipped her arm around the girl's waist. As soon as Roy called her she and Elycia hurried over to the Hohenheim to help their friends any way they could. Elycia had fixed a generous hamper of food for the trip—not that anyone would feel much like eating, so there were also simple nourishing snacks of cheese and crackers and fruit. She'd headed over to the older sibling's rooms to make sure he was ready, finding Jean Havoc with everything well in hand and Maes bearing up as best as he could, for the young man loved his great grandmother very dearly.

"It's good. I'm sure." Why did her hands feel so cold? Just the smell of the food coming from the hamper made her want to vomit. "Is Tinker okay?"

Gracia's smile was very gentle. "Honey, _nobody_ is okay today. Nobody has to be okay. But you're not alone…never, ever." She hugged Nina tightly, gently rubbing the rigid shoulders.

###

"Collins, I've called Mrs. Bradley and informed her that you will be staying on a bit longer yet. At the moment you'll be needed here."

The young butler nodded to his Majordomo. "Thank you, Sir. I will also call her myself and offer my apologies. If there is time I will stop by and introduce myself to Mrs. Bradley and Master Selim."

Sebastian nodded. He'd done well with this boy, guiding him carefully up through the household ranks, not simply to serve as a butler but to serve and protect His Excellency above all. _"Present arms."_

A flick of both wrists and a throwing knife slid into each hand. A discreet flip of his jacket lapels revealed loaded sidearms. _"Pockets?"_ A fine coil of garroting wire and a sealed phial with a single dose of cyanide were revealed. The capsule was for himself if he were to find himself in a compromising situation and no way out. An enemy might take him captive but they would never take him alive…at least not for long. Sebastian nodded. "Good man. Well done. Carry on, Collins."

"Yes sir!"

###

The two battered brown valises were packed yet again with Sebastian's ruthless efficiency. A garment bag sat in the hall beside them, bearing Edward and Alphonse's best black suits. Silk black armbands, one for each of the brothers and one for Maes who didn't own one, were thoughtfully included. Havoc would drive Maes and Nina to the airfield where Edward and Alphonse would meet them, driven by Colonel Hawkeye. Havoc would be escorting the Elric family to Resembool and when they arrived at the depot an army staff car would be at their disposal.

There was nothing for Ed to do but fidget and snap at people. Eventually, even Alphonse retreated. He fully understood his brother was battling with his own emotions but that didn't mean Alphonse was in the mood to put up with them. After all, he recalled, once upon a time they had been two little boys in a graveyard—the same graveyard where Pinako would rest—and it was Ed who refused to accept that their precious mother was gone. It was Ed who railed against death, Ed who couldn't move on—and Ed who never stopped beating himself up over what that character flaw had cost them both.

He had warned Roy. "This is going to be bad." Roy nodded, clapping Alphonse on the shoulder without a word before heading up to the room he shared with his lover. There were going to be fireworks, most likely, and Al decided the best thing he could do was catch a cab to the dorms and see if Maes and Nina needed any help. There was a damn good chance Ed was going to throw a punch at _something_—and if it happened to be Alphonse there was no guarantee that Al wasn't going to clock him back. It would be awful if Granny's last words to the Elric brothers she'd midwifed into this world were "can't you boys _behave_?"

###

"Ice?" Roy's hand—the one that wasn't cupping his left eye—gestured towards their private sitting room. Sebastian always kept the sideboard well stocked. It was a point of honor that both the ice bucket and the state-of-the-art electric coffee percolator were at the ready on the bar, since Roy and Ed often relaxed their with family and friends. Ed grabbed one of the clean linen tea towels stored in the sideboard, scooped up a handful of cracked ice and improvised a compress for His Excellency.

"Fuck…I'm sorry. I…._damn_. Roy-"

The free hand gestured for Ed to shut the hell up. "What time's your flight?"

"I thought we were leaving at ten, but the when Havoc called me he said 11:30—"

"The airship leaves at ten, but there's a transport flight to East City tonight. Twelve-seater puddle jumper, but it will get you there faster, if you don't mind riding with the mail."

Despite his mood, Ed looked interested. "A Handley-Page?"

Roy shook his head and instantly regretted it. "Armstrong Argosy."

"That seats fourteen, and Armstrong would be pissed to hear an Argosy called a 'puddle jumper'." The limited run of the three-engine Armstrong Argosy aeroplanes was due to their higher standards of passenger comfort. Their famous "Silver Wing" service route was the first passenger air service to Aerugo and Table City and would soon carry up to twenty passengers in first class luxury to the Imperial City in Xing.

"Technically it's for military officers, but that's a waste of taxpayer's money. I had it modified and now it runs express air mail and parcels between the region capitals. I'm surprised you didn't know."

"I design the fuckin' engines—I don't know who routes 'em where." He turned away, feeling awkward. He'd just…swung out in frustration when all Roy was trying to do was offer him comfort. It was the dumbest thing he'd ever done and he felt sick about it. _No different than Winry decking me with a wrench for pissing her off. I can't say shit about that anymore. Guess I'm just as bad…no, I'm worse. She grew up and got over it. I'm fuckin' thirty-six years old and there's no damned excuse._

He touched his lover's shoulder. "No damned excuse," he echoed his thoughts. "How bad it is?"

Roy shrugged. "At least your hand is flesh these days. If you'd been fifteen you'd have gone out the back of my head."

"Lemme see….goddamn…that's gonna leave a -"

"A rather impressive shiner. I expect I'll have to enlist Ross to help me cover it up for the newsreel cameras." Roy smiled slightly. His head was still ringing slightly. Edward didn't have to punch as many people out as he did in his teens but his fighting strength hadn't diminished one whit since The Promised Day. "I fear I'm slowing down. Should have ducked."

"Should have decked me back, damn it." Ed sighed heavily. "I deserve it."

"Don't tempt me." There was a chuckle from behind the ice pack. "I could light your pony tail like a fuse and you know it. But under the circumstances, forget it. You can't handle death."

"I—"

A sharp look shut him up. "Let me finish. You're tough, Ed. Sometimes too tough—on the outside. I know you too damn well. You go to such lengths to be a hardass—you haven't changed all that much since the Promised day. You've got this damned stupid image of yourself as being ten foot tall and bullet proof…and at the same time you know damn well you're eating your guts out because you care too damn much about other people. You _know_ it's the truth—so don't stomp off like a kid. Shut up and _listen_ to me…for once."

Ed glared at him. That was good, Roy told himself. He needs to get this out of his system before he goes back to Resembool wound up tight and gets into a shouting match with Winry or starts in on Al. Pinako doesn't need a ruckus at the end.

"Ed, if you didn't have a heart our kids wouldn't have turned out as well as they have. Maes and Nina taught you that it's not a sign of weakness to feel emotion. Nina's got that same attitude and I'm worried it's going to break her some day, but Maes…he's the best of you, Ed. I see him and I see you the way you are when you've got your guard down. And I'm just as bad—no, I'm worse. I'm a soldier. I was trained to kill people and watch my comrades die and never break step…never cry for them…never lose my composure. You were with me in the tunnels, Ed. You saw me with Envy. _You saw me break_." Putting down the cold compress Roy faced Ed full on, his left eye purpled and swollen. "And right now…_right now_…you're about to break because you can't stand to lose another mother…even though she's lived a long, good life. Pinako raised you, she was a mother to you when Tricia died, even more than Izumi….and it's breaking your heart to say goodbye. Give me your hand."

The knuckles were reddened. Fleetingly, Roy felt a hint of satisfaction that it must have hurt Edward at least a little bit when his fist made contact with Roy's face. Roy guided the offending hand in between the crisp folds of his shirt until it rested over Roy's heart. "_Look at me."_

Ed obeyed, his own gaze guarded, not wanting to own up to the truth of the injury he had obviously done to the man he loved. Had Winry ever felt that sickening pang of regret after hitting him_? She must have_, he reckoned. _It's a hell of a shock to look at someone you love and see your anger raise a bruise or make them bleed. Question is, is that shock stronger than your anger? It wasn't for her back then, maybe, but it fucking well is for me right now. But I understand her a little more now. Helluva way to behave._

"One day, this heartbeat is going to stop."

Ed felt sick, pushed back a rush of panicked thoughts and images. Roy facing down Edison in a back alley. Years later, Roy stoically having a bullet dug out of his shoulder, refusing to go in the OR, appearing in public a few hours later to assure the public he was well and that the sniper's ambitions had come to nothing. _So close…damn, he's come so close…I've come so close to losing him…_

"This heart will stop. Or," Roy's hand moved to Edward's shirt. "_This_ heart will stop. No way to know when—and that's the way it should be. I don't want to live forever, Ed. Only fools and madmen like the Father or King Xerxes or the idiots in the Old Guard would even try." The scarred hand began to caress, sliding up and into Ed's disheveled hair, gently rubbing the tension at the back of Edward's neck. "I used to believe that there was nothing after death. That was before I passed through the Gateway the second time. Before my sight was returned. Before I saw _Hughes_." Roy leaned in close, resting his forehead against Edward's. "You know what he said to me. I told you. He told me to stop turning my heart into a grave for him. To go out and risk…and love…because life is short enough and I can't miss a moment of it." Both hands were caressing now, and Ed could feel a burning at the back of his throat. His eyes began to sting. "Ed…one of the greatest gifts we can give someone is to be there for them when they leave us. It's not about us—it's about them. She loves you, Ed. She loves Al and the kids and Winry and Pitt and it's an honor that she loves you so much she wants you to be right there, holding her hand when she goes on….and from what I've seen—what we've _both_ seen, and Al and Izumi too—is that there is a 'going on'. We don't simply _end_. Whatever there is on the other side of that Gate isn't 'god'—but it's _life_ and energy and what we love isn't _gone_. It changes, but it isn't gone. And I swear to you," Roy's arms were locked tightly around Ed's shoulders now, "I _swear to you_, if I go first, I'll wait at the Gate, just like Alphonse, until you come through. Whatever there is, we'll explore it _together_. If Al could wait, so can I. Okay? In the meantime," his lips grazed Ed's, "I am _here_. Right now. You're _here_. Let's not waste it."

###

_"Hey."_

Her father's voice was very quiet, very gentle. Her face felt like a frozen mask, and when he slipped his arm around her she thought she would fracture like a cracked china doll.

He pressed a kiss on the top of her head. "I've been through the Gate, kiddo. Nothing we love gets lost. Remember that. It just sucks to say goodbye."

Nina buried her face in her father's chest and wept at last.

###

Ruby's cheesecake, Maria Ross decided, was the _eighth_ Deadly Sin. That didn't stop her from indulging in a second slice and a third glass of wine. They'd spent the evening at Ruby's flat making dinner and relaxing. Sheska had been there earlier but about halfway through the President's interview with Donal Samuelson on the radio she'd gotten a call and had to duck back to the office. The other two women spent the rest of the evening pouring over paint samples and wallpaper scraps over a bottle of wine, since Maria was planning on remodeling her kitchen.

They had just concluded that Maria should strip down the old oak cabinets and refinish the natural wood when the phone rang again.

Ruby heard a few 'uh-huh's' and a long silence. The phone clicked in its cradle. Ross buried her face in her hands. "I can't stand it," she groaned. "I just can't _stand_ it any more!"

"What is it?"

"I've got to come in a half hour early all week-_and_ I have to sit in the Presidential box at the gala."

Ruby lifted her eyebrows. "Like that's a bad thing?" Overtime pay and posh seats at the gala didn't sound too bad to her thinking. "C'mon, Maria! You're Mustang's other right hand woman! He knows he can't get by without you! You're a shoe-in for that promotion! You're bright, motivated….you've got great organizational skills. He needs your talents. He needs your input, He needs-"

Maria Ross shook her fist at her unseen boss. "_HE NEEDS MY GODDAMN MAKEUP!"_

…TO BE CONTINUED


	11. Chapter 11

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 11: ONE FOR THE ROAD

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

"Careful? Careful my ass!" The hospice nurse cowered in the corner as the old dying woman railed at her. She glanced hopefully at the doctor grinning in the doorway, hoping he would back her up for refusing the old lady's request for a shot of Stray Dog whisky.

"Give her any damn thing she wants. Might as well go out smiling," said Dr. Pitt Renback while his wife Winry's jaw dropped in horror.

"Pitt, you can't mean that!" she gasped. "Granny—"

"—Granny's about to die, girl," Pinako shot back at her granddaughter. "And she's going to go out with a smile on her face or she's not going. I want my pipe, too—and tell Sarah to let the dog in here."

Before Winry could argue her husband kissed her on the forehead. "This is the Pantheress of Resembool," he told her. "I've heard the stories, honey. Last thing I want to do is get on her bad side. She might haunt me."

"Damn right! Glad you got me out of that hospital, boy. At least you've got some sense. Those fools feeding me mush and weak tea, telling me I can't smoke, not letting the little kids come in for fear they'd make me sick. Make me sick? No cure for what I've got, so why keep my great grandchildren away from me?" She frowned at Winry. "You gonna get my pipe?"

After a long moment, Winry nodded. "Promise you won't smoke alone in the room?"

"Afraid I'll kick off and then set the bed afire? All right. I promise. Pitt, where's my bottle?"

"I'll get it—_but_ until Ed and Al and the kids get here, I'm going to do the pouring. No arguments. You raised hell for them to get here and they're on their way from East City right now. I want you sober enough to say hello, okay?"

Winry located the _keseru_ pipe and its battered tobacco box on the whatnot shelf near the old woman's worktable. It was awful, just awful. When the doctor at the hospital told Pinako that she was dying the old woman's behavior became downright disgraceful. Instead of being depressed, Granny's spirits began to rise and she brightened up considerably. Winry misinterpreted this as her grandmother rallying, convinced that the 94-year-old would be back on her feet in no time. "Don't be stupid, Winry. Pack my things—no, don't bother. Nothing I can't leave behind me. Just get me the hell out of here. I miss those green hills and the river. I want the kids around me and a puppy in my lap. I want a good stiff drink and a smoke and something on my plate that doesn't look like it just came out of somebody's diaper. Call Ed and Al—no, give me that damn phone. I'll call Mustang. He'll get their ungrateful asses back home. I want Nina and Maes—I want everybody. This is my going away party for as long as it lasts and I want to make it a good one. Now, get cracking!"

It seemed so wrong. Why was Granny acting like this? Had she lost her mind?

Long, long before she was born, Winry knew her grandmother had, well..a _reputation._ Every now and again some old timer, usually a man, would talk about her and smile a certain way and say something like 'boy, Miz Pinako…she was _something_, back in the day…' Winry never inquired to closely—this was _Granny_, for heaven's sake! She was sedate. Respectable. Sober. Her only vice was her pipe…or was it?

Apparently it wasn't.

When Ed left, Granny had once raised hell at her for calling Ed a pervert for sleeping with Roy Mustang…

_"Winry, pay attention. Dick…in…mouth. I've done it. Your mother did it. You've probably done it—"_

_"—GRANNY!"_

_"-Garfiel's certainly done it—and now you know Ed's done it too." She made an O with her finger and thumb and rapidly thrust the pipe stem in and out. "Now then: dick…in…ass. I've done it—your mother probably did it—" _

_"—GRANNY!"_

_"—well, we didn't have a lot of birth control and you could do that and still technically be a virgin—and from the look on your face I'm guessing you don't know what I'm talking about. I'll bet you don't get the punch lines about Resembool boys helping the sheep over the hedge, either. And the old classic, jerking off. I've done it. I've done it so many times and I'll do it 'til I die. Damn good for what ails ya-_

_"—GRANNY!"_

"_I've straddled more cock in my life than you've had hot dinners. And I've gotten drunk in my Pantheress day and found myself in bed with all kinds of congenial people." She blew a cloud of smoke and grinned hugely. "So get that sharp stick out of your self-righteous ass and shut your yap about perverts."_

It had been one hell of a slap in the face and she tried not to dwell on the details. Oh, granted, being married to Pitt all these years she certainly had a better understanding of sex and love, but the idea of her grandmother carousing around, getting drunk and being promiscuous made her _cringe_. And the way she was talking and carrying on now Winry was afraid the next thing the old lady would demand would be an automail dildo-and worse, that Pitt would get her one.

###

"YEEEEOWWWCHHHH!"

The tiny toilet stall on the train to Resembool echoed with the anguished yelps of Jean Havoc as he emptied his bladder. For some reason all those smutty jokes about the clap he'd heard as a cadet started running through his mind:

"What's worse than having your doc tell you you've got the gleet?"

"Having your wife tell you!"

"Yeah, well, do you know the difference between the clap and the common cold? One you get from snatching kisses-"

"She's gonna rip it out by the _roots_. She's gonna drag me to the rifle range and paint a bulls-eye on my nutsack and-"

"Uncle Jean, you okay in there?" Damn. It was Maes.

"Uhhh…yeah, kid. I'm great."

"You don't _sound_ great. Want me to get Uncle Al?"

Oh, _hell_ no, Havoc panicked. Alphonse was very knowledgeable in Xingese healing but the last thing he wanted was Al's hands on his reddened and infected wang. "No…must have a bladder infection. Get that sometimes. Usta use a catheter when I was wounded years ago. It's okay. I'll get some pills in Resembool."

He zipped up, washed his hands and stepped into the corridor. "All yours."

"Hmmm….judging from that scream I'd guess you've got a dose."

Havoc's ears burned. "Wha…what makes you think I've…g-got…y'know….?"

"_Gonorrhea. _The clap. The gleet, the drips, the-"

"Hey, shudup, willya?" Havoc was mortified. "I'm not the kind of guy who fools around-"

"—unless it's being waved right in your face." Maes was grinning. "I hear the Ice Cream Blonde is all over you like sparks on alchemy. You got protection?" Havoc looked terrified. "You _need_ protection?" Maes dug into his pocket and Havoc's eyes went wide. "Oh, hell's bells, Uncle Jean! Do you think Uncle Al would trust my _dad_ to teach me about the facts of life? 'Be kind, be considerate, be responsible, be protected—and don't take risks.' Between his advice and those Ishballan sex poetry books I found of Uncle Roy's I'd say I'm set for life."

Havoc shook his head. "And I remember when you were knee high to a hiccup. Now you're off chasing girls—"

"Girls? Hmmmm. Depends on what day it is. Let's say I'm not prejudiced and leave it at that, okay?" The younger man slapped Havoc good naturedly on the shoulder and closed the lavatory door behind him.

###

"He really got you good," Maria Ross observed for what seemed like the hundredth time as she used a damp sponge to dab on an ivory foundation over the layer of concealer she had smoothed over Roy's bruised left eye. Concealer, foundation, eye shadow in a pale shade that made his eye look less livid. "You've got more paint on your face than a Central street hostess—oops. Sorry!" She had momentarily forgotten that Roy had been reared in a house of ill repute and his foster mother was a retired madame.

"Tell that to Aunt Chris. She'll find it amusing." Mustang leaned forward and studied himself up close. His left eye was still a little puffy, but he could open it now. "If anyone asks, it happened in the stable. I got kicked by a colt." Arjuna, at six months, was as skittish as his granddam Cirrocco and was secretly marking tallies on the stall door, Roy suspected, of the stable boys he'd bitten and kicked. Ed referred to him as the M.L.F.—Mean Little Fucker—and only Nina had any real luck handling him. "That's good, Ross. Thank you. Since you're sitting in the box, Collins will take you out to the dress shop. You're being paid to keep me photogenic so this is a work expense. Find something nice to wear—and anything else. Shoes, a handbag, stockings. Collins will take care of it."

Ross was touched. "Thank you, Sir. It's a shame that your family won't be here. I know Nina was so excited about this. You'll be without an escort."

"Actually, no. It may be last notice, but there's only one woman who should be standing by my side tomorrow night. A very, very special lady indeed." From her desk, Hawkeye didn't look up but she stopped writing. Her heart gave a funny _ba-bump!_ under her uniform jacket, that hammered harder when Mustang rose and nodded to her. "Colonel Hawkeye. I would like you to accompany me to Il Gattina—if you have nothing on your schedule."

She shoved a stack of files in her desk drawer and shut it firmly with a bang. "I'm available, Sir."

"Good. You and I have a great deal to discuss."

Some women turned to chocolate. Some turned to men. Some indulged in 'retail therapy' while others just got drunk. When Riza Hawkeye was angry she went to the shooting range, and from the way she was blasting target after target to confetti her old friend and fellow gun enthusiast Rebecca Catalina was more than a little alarmed. "Girl, I don't know what he said to you, but if he turns up dead in the next twelve hours I'd be hard put not to suggest you as the number one suspect."

"I'm not angry." Hawkeye grabbed a pump-action shotgun from the pile of weapons she had checked out and blew another target to dust. "What makes you think I'm angry?"

"Wouldn't you rather go buy some shoes? Maybe get your nails done for tomorrow? After all, you'll be up in the box-"

"-with a scope riffle. In black. Watching _his_ back-and Elycia's." She slapped a button and another line of paper targets swung into her crosshairs.

"Wait—the 'very special lady' he was talking about-that was _Elycia Hughes?_ You gotta be kidding me! That's why he dragged you to Il Gattina, for crying out loud?"

"He asked me to take her shopping—and Gracia too. After all," she gritted her teeth, "they're _family_."

###

"Throw me a party."

Ed's head jerked back in shock. _"WHAT?"_

"You heard me the first time." The old lady poked him in the chest with the stem of her pipe. _"Throw me a party."_

Ed was speechless. Alphonse blinked like he'd been slapped. "We heard you, Granny," he stammered. "We just didn't believe our ears."

The old woman began to cough—a raw sound that must have rattled her scrawny ribcage. She gestured for another shot of Stray Dog. Maes gave it to her.

"Granny," Ed asked carefully, "you're not up to it—"

"That's the whole damn point, Ed. But you are. You, boy, are going to throw a party for me—and you can pick up the tab. You and Al are going to go around town to everybody that knows me—hell, even the people who don't-and call them up here tomorrow night. You are going to light a bonfire in the yard and break out some kegs of cider and beer and whiskey. You're going to find some folks who can play and sing, and I want everybody who isn't dying or dead drunk to kick up their heels and _dance_, boy. I want it like the old days—before we were a town. Back when we were a village and we'd celebrate Harvest around the bonfires and I would sit back with your old man Hohenheim and match him round for round—back when your mom was still a little kid dancing in her pinafore. And I want people to tell stories about me—yes, damn it, Winry—even the ones you _don't_ want to remember. And _this_ little girl," she pointed her pipe now at Nina," is going to write them down and remember them. Because that's what immortality is, Winry. It's being remembered."

"But-"

"I'll stay out of the chill. Pitt, you move my bed downstairs and put me warm by the fire, but leave the door open wide so I can see 'em dancing and hear the jokes and songs. Shoot off some sky rockets too. Always liked 'em. And if I take a nap and don't wake up, cry if you need to but keep on singing and dancing and drinking."

_"Forget it!"_ Winry's face was flushed with anger. "The very idea—"

"—is a good one." Nina rose from her grandmother's bedside. She looked pale but determined. "Right, Tinker?"

Maes slid his arms around his sister and hugged her fiercely. "Yeah," he sniffed back the tears and managed a smile. "Let's do it right."

Ed and Winry stared at one another. Both of them were horrified at the idea but Pitt and Alphonse were nodding in agreement. Granny, pale and short of breath, looked positively ferocious. "I guess-" Winry sighed.

"—If you're sure-" Ed echoed.

###

In the village, the shopkeepers were astonished. Not only were Miss Winry's oldest kids buying out the shops, but the bills were being paid by none other than President Mustang. "I can at least do this for her," Roy told his daughter over the phone. 'Anything you want or need. I can't be there for you but I can do this for her."

People began knocking on doors, running from house to house, from the foundry to the train station to the farms and in neighboring towns. Old Granny Pinako was saying her farewells and everybody was invited to the party. There wasn't enough time for old friends from Rush Valley or former students from Central to get to Resembool but they all sent telegrams and flowers and phoned to send their love.

Farmer's wives scurried up the hill—now a properly paved road—with covered dishes and cakes while their brawny husbands and sons threw together trestle tables in the yard. Patients at the Rockbell Clinic recovering or preparing for automail surgery and were ambulatory were given rides up the hill and comfortable places to rest inside. Paninya kept the kids entertained and Garfiel donned his best frilly apron and supervised the pot luck preparations. Alphonse strung lights around the property while Ed directed everybody in sight, dashing up the steps every hour to check on Granny. The old bird was smiling, a dog's head in her lap and Winry and Sarah never leaving her side. She could hear the racket downstairs and it pleased her no end.

Maes and his young half brothers drove the old hay wagon around and gave rides to all the folks who couldn't get there, helping—even lifting—the old ones and settling them in cozily, well wrapped with blankets. The house would be space for the elderly and the infants and the automail patients to hold court while the family received guests on the porch and the crowd celebrated on the front lawn.

Right around dusk Winry rang the old dinner gong and called everybody to the front porch. Pitt rolled out a huge keg of freshly pressed hard cider and every glass and mug and cup was filled, Paninya offering jugs of sweet cider for the children and other folk who preferred not to imbibe. When everyone was ready Ed came out with Granny in his arms, warmly wrapped in a blanket but wearing her best dress, long hair neatly combed in her ever-present bun. Maes had rigged up a microphone so the old woman wouldn't strain her voice to be heard.

"Good of everybody to show up for my party….thanks. I….it means a lot to an old lady." There was a slight quaver of emotion—a catch in her voice, but she mastered it. "Good of you to come out tonight. We've got plenty to eat, and enough booze to keep you dancing all night. Enjoy yourselves. I'll be back out for the fireworks once it's dark."

Ed sat on one side with Alphonse and Winry on the other, holding her hands, giving her tiny sips of whiskey. She waved away the food. "I'm fine. I'm just fine, thanks." Pitt offered to load her pipe for her. "That's okay, son. You keep it safe for me." She turned to Ed and smiled a little. "Your missing Roy's birthday."

"He'd rather be here with us," Ed assured her.

"No. He wouldn't." Pinako took a sip from the glass Al offered to her lips. "He woldn't know what to do….wouldn't be able to relax and fit in. Good man—but this isn't something he would understand. Roy Mustang never got to be a kid…never got to be in a family before you two got together. Never learned to do anything but be proper, fight for his country, be an alchemist and protect other people—never could relax with common folk. Poor boy….poor boy…you take care of him, Ed. Teach him how to get drunk and dance under a harvest moon."

Ed nodded. "Alphonse," she turned to his brother now, "I know why you didn't marry Julia Creighton. I know what you gave up, son. You never stopped loving Winry." On the other side of the cot, her granddaughter gasped out loud and turned scarlet. "No, hear me out. Julia's a fine, fine girl. Should have been here tonight. But she'll never leave Milos and you'll never settle down. Being in that armor made you funny, boy—but you've got a loving heart. Grew to be a fine man. If you could have given up your dreams you might have made a good life with Winry but it's not in you. And Winry, you never would have gotten pregnant with Sarah and married Pitt if you hadn't thought Al and Julia would stay together. Are you _happy_, girl? Any regrets."

Winry thought for a long time in the silence that followed. "I have plenty of regrets." She reached over her grandmother, brushed the hair back from Ed's temple and touched the faded scar where she had hit him the night he left. "I'm sorry for _this_. I'm sorry I hurt you, Ed."

Ed clasped her hand and squeezed it. "I'm sorry we hurt each other. I'm glad we're okay. We don't need to talk about it anymore. It's done."

She offered him a grateful smile. "And….I'm sorry, Al….that you and I…never…That solstice night in Dublith at Izumi's house. Why didn't you say yes?"

Pinako answered for Alphonse. "Because he wanted it too much and knew you'd both be hurt worse if he said yes. He still wants you. You want him. You got a fine husband and a houseful of beautiful children. Pitt would lay down his life for you. Either get it out of your systems and get on with your lives—or walk away from this and leave it. But don't live with regrets. Do what you have to do, but don't let this drag on any longer. And remember-it's easy to get into bed. It's not so easy to climb out of it in the morning and face the wreckage you've made of your life for a night of pleasure. We crave all kinds of things. Not all of them are good for you."

The three of them were all feeling a little sick inside by all this candor, but it was Pinako's right to say these things to them—and she wasn't quite done. "Ed?"

"Ma'am?"

"Don't let Nina grow up to be Roy Mustang. That rock and those words didn't hit her head—it hit her _heart_. And a year at a royal court didn't do her any favors. That sweet child thinks she's a freak of nature. She's a gift to this world. Help her remember that. And your boy is so brilliant he throws off sparks—trouble is, he does it in all directions. If you can teach that kid to focus on one thing that makes life worth living, he'll do all right. I don't seem him coming back here and following in my footsteps….would've been nice…."

She seemed to drift off for a while, as if talking was tiring her. Outside there was the scrape of a fiddle in the twilight and the sound of clapping hands and the tang of wood smoke in the air that made Edward think of his lover and wish for that cool, confident presence to ease his heartache-

_"Where are my skyrockets?"_

Al looked up from his own reverie. "What?"

"You promised me skyrockets."

"We were going to wait until-"

"Take me outside, Ed. Get the kids on the porch. We'll watch 'em together."

She weighed nothing. It was as if the chains that bound her to the earth had been released at last and she was feather light in his arms. Everyone made room so Ed could sit on the steps with Granny in his strong arms, turned so she could see the night sky. The thin sliver of a crescent moon had just risen above the mountains. Winry held her grandmother's hand. "You want your pipe, Granny?" she offered.

"No…you keep it now. Always did enjoy a good pipe. A good dog at my feet….Urey runnin' around… Doc warming my bed every night. Good man, but I could drink him under the table. He could nail me right though the mattress, though…guess that's equivalent exchange…."

Alphonse reached down and gently removed her glasses. He folded them very carefully and tucked them into his breast pocket. There was a great _wooooshhhh_ and the sky was painted with a cascade of golden stars.

'Ed?"

"Yeah, Granny?"

"Tricia says…." Her eyes lifted to the night sky and she smiled. "She's fine…..Ed…..she's just….fine…." There was another _whoooshhhh _ and a loud explosion that made the little ones squeal and dance around with their hands held out, wishing they could capture the blossoms of red and green fire, pointing up at a massive single burst trailing fire across the face of the crescent moon.

Edward closed Pinako's eyes. The Pantheress of Resembool slipped away between one breath and another, still smiling. She had ridden the contrails of that last golden comet , and it had carried her soul across the Rain River Valley of Resembool to where Tricia Elric was waiting on the other side to welcome her Home.

….TO BE CONTINUED…..


	12. Chapter 12

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 12: "BURN IMMINENT"

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy Mustang's staff had its own lexicon of military alert codes. "Foxtrot Echo Echo" (Fucking Edward Elric) meant that His Excellency and Professor Edward Elric were rearranging the Presidential office furniture with alchemy and sweaty bodies. In the event of an urgent issue that required His Excellency's immediate attention ,under this code one should be prepared to see both men in various states of undress or occasionally even tied to a desk or chair and smeared with various lickable condiments from the kitchen.

Code 'Romeo Oscar Romeo' (Roy On the Rag), possibly coined by Havoc, warned staff members that the President was in a foul mood and all communications needed to be brief and to the point to avoid being singed or shouted at. When a Code Romeo Oscar Romeo applied to Edward, it was fair warning that Ed and Ruby were close to blows in his office and to save furniture breakage it might be a damn good idea to send in the tea wagon to distract them before any more windows or chairs needed replacing.

In honor of the President's fiftieth birthday, a new code was established:

Code Bravo Ice, aka Code _Burn Imminent_.

It was coined in honor of Roy Mustang. However, from that point on in Amestrian presidential administrations, Code Bravo Ice would refer to national emergencies, great cataclysms and natural disasters…

###

Roy checked the mirror, half expecting to see a pulsating bulge right above his left temple. If he'd been on the phone he could have slammed it down in the cradle. It might have helped his mood.

Ruby, subbing in for both Hawkeye and Sheska, was wishing she was wearing something a tad more flame retardant. "Bad news?"

"_Ruby."_ There was a definite weary emphasis to her name and it got her attention. "In exactly twenty-four hours I will be in the Presidential Box at the theatre with a battery of film cameras trained on my every movement. There will be microphones in every nook and cranny—quite possibly one up my posterior as well. A number of highly volatile people are running amok and my subordinates are not able to contain them. In twenty…four…hours—"

"_It's not your problem."_

Braver souls than Ruby would have slunk under the carpet from the intense scowl he turned towards her. Ruby worked for Edward Elric. Nothing short of incineration would make her cringe.

"You're getting paid to run the country, right? This bullshit isn't part of your job description. Sheska calls up and whines because she and Breda can't get things under control." She flipped her long black ponytail over one shoulder. "_Screw 'em_, Boss. They were the ones who agreed to this dog and pony show. Not you. Right now your family's gone and," she clenched her teeth, forcing herself to find something nice to say about her employer, "I know you miss…_him_. Probably." She shrugged her shoulders. "Delegate the bullshit, show up tomorrow looking pretty, smile for the cameras and make sure Elycia and Gracia have a good time. That's all you've gotta do."

Their eyes locked for several moments. Ruby didn't flinch.

Eventually, to everyone's great relief, The Smirk® returned.

"_Get me Colonel Hawkeye."_

###

_" You're fucking with only half a ball here, and it's ALL going down the dumper." _

"SHESKA?" Hearing that kind of language from the generally sweet-tempered bibliophile was like dropping a fresh horse turd into an antique vase from Ling Yao's palace. Breda hurried over to her, genuinely alarmed. "Hey, you okay?"

The poor woman looked completely frazzled and fried. "Six weeks residency, Breda."

"Huh?"

"_Six weeks_. All I have to do is cross the border to Milos, get a job working for Julia Creighton and in six weeks as an employable emigrant they can start processing my citizenship papers." She shook her head in disgust. "Seriously. Pick a damn country, Breda—'cause when this whole 'Star Studded Salute To The President" is over with we will be running for the nearest non-hostile border with Roy Mustang throwing fire-bombs at our heels."

He took a slurp of coffee. "No offense, Sheska, but it's really not that big a shambles-"

That set the poor woman off on another round of spluttering and wailing, but they both jumped about a half-meter when the office door banged open and Vato Falman shot in, slamming it behind him. "_Hide me."_

Breda looked concerned. "From what?"

"From _whom_, to be precise," Falman panted. He was sweating heavily and Sheska offered him a tissue to mop his forehead. He signed his thanks as he fought to get his breath back. "Can you estimate how many floors we are above level ground?" Sheska informed him that they were three stories up." That's not high enough to cause a fatal injury, is it?"

"Sorry, no." She studied him carefully. "Is this in reference to suicide or murder?"

"With Maestro Williams? Flip a coin." Falman grabbed a chair before he fell to his knees. "That man is a martinet, A tyrant. A despot-"

"—a jerk," Breda finished for him. "What does he want now?"

"A right-handed baton of rosewood—and it needs to be at _least_ 25.5 inches."

"He can't use the one in the concert hall?"

Falman shook his head. "No, that's only 24 inches."

"So the guy's got size issues?"

Falman looked despondent. " He says it will adversely affect his tempo. Now I understand the old joke that the difference between an orchestra and a bull is that a bull has the horns in the front and the asshole in the _back_."

"He can use my grandmother's knitting needle for all I care." He glanced at Sheska. "What _else_ is blowing up in our faces?"

"The girls from Vagin—I mean—Vaganova keep asking where Alphonse is—"

"—what _is_ it with Alphonse and ballerinas? You remember the ballerinas in Aerugo?"

"-who could forget?"

"—and the father of the Altoid Sisters started a punch-up in the parking lot with Duke Brubeck's manager. He thinks Brubeck was smoking something illegal in his car—"

"—I thought Furey was watching Brubeck—"

"—he's gone. They had to stitch his upper lip after Mr. Altoid swung at Duke and Kain tried to intervene. Oh, and has anybody heard any of the comedy material Sherman Lehrer is planning to do?"

"Well, he promised not to sing 'Hold My Purse While I Save The World'."

Falman walked past the coffee and went straight to the Stray Dog. "That's a relief."

"I'm not so sure. He says he wrote a song about the President's childhood."

There was a long pause as the trio contemplated what sort of subjects that might include, considering that Roy didn't exactly spend his tender years in a Letoist monastery. "Let's get him on the horn before rehearsals tonight. I don't want anything that hits below the belt. Cripes, what a mess!" Breda sighed. "So who's watching The Ice Cream Blonde?"

"Well….I know we weren't supposed to bother the President about this event," Sheska picked nervously at a hangnail and refrained from looking at either Breda or Falman. "But with Al and Havoc gone…I just had to do something….and President Mustang was nice. Angry, but nice. He said he'd have someone take care of Miss Turlough and not to worry."

"_Great_. That means Gladys Turlough, at least, is the one guest we have to worry about!"

###

A lot of men had shot at Riza Hawkeye. No woman had ever tried to slapped her. No woman was insane enough to try, at least this side of the Briggs Mountain

This made it all the more shocking that she could be taken down by a peroxide blonde sitting half way across the room, poking a manicured finger into a box of chocolates from Il Gattina to find all the cherry cordials.

"Sure you wouldn't like some chocolates? These are just amazing."

Hawkeye nodded towards her steaming coffee cup. "I'm fine, Miss Turlough. Thank you."

"I heard Alphonse's grandma is passing away and he and the family have gone back home. Jean went with him, you know?" She pouted prettily. _Oh. So it's Jean now, not Major Havoc?_ Hawkeye noted with displeasure. Her right eyebrow inched up a fraction but The Ice Cream Blonde was too self-absorbed to notice. "That's a shame. That Alphonse is a sweet fella. I gave Jean some cens before he left so he could get them some flowers." She bit deeply into a dark chocolate and then spat it delicately into a tissue. "Ewww. I hate chocolate mint! I gotta tell you, though, there's nothing like a big strong country boy. Knows now to treat a lady. Jean is so nice about lighting my cigarettes for me when he's around." She held up the deep blue candy box decorated with little gold paw prints and filled with gold doilies and tissue. "City boys can be real doll-babies too. I got these from Roy. Look at the card—'Sweets to the sweet. Am looking forward to seeing you perform tomorrow night-see, he even signed it himself!" Gladys held up the note so Hawkeye could see it and sure enough the signature was unmistakable.

So that was the _other_ reason he had her drive him to Il Gattina and was whispering with Elycia and borrowed her pen to jot down a note which Elycia had taken away. "I looooove the cherries best—they're all good, but you can have fun with the cherry chocolates. Like _this."_ Gladys Turlough neatly nipped off the top of the cherry cordial with her perfect white teeth and then dipped the tip of her tongue into the sticky sweetness, swirling the glistening red fruit around and then catching it on her tongue. A man would have popped his buttons over the performance. Riza found it made her very uneasy. "And thennnnn…..you get to lick up all the creamy stuff…mmmmmm…." Eyes blissfully shut, she was doing things with her tongue to that piece of hand dipped candy that would make a woman melt faster than milk chocolate.

The Colonel cleared her throat. "You said you wanted to ask me some questions, Miss Turlough?"

"Yeah." She lapped a drop of pink cherry goo off her lip and smiled. "What's your motivation?"

Cognac eyes blinked. "My…_motivation?"_

"Uh huh. I mean, you've stuck by Mustang since you were young." She plucked out a caramel truffle and bit the top off, tonguing away at the filling.

_"Young?" _Had that sounded as bad as Hawkeye thought it did?

Gladys' smile was full of kittens and sunshine. "Right. Because the story goes back to-what-1909? No—you knew him before. Way back in the 1800's. And you've been serving him for simply _ages_. You never married, never had kids—always looking so…_forceful_…in that uniform. So-it had to be a strong motivation. I need to know what it is if I'm going to get the part just right."

Hawkeye looked confused. _"Part?"_

The Ice Cream Blonde licked caramel off her thumb. "Roy didn't tell you? They're making a movie version of that Fullmetal Alchemist stage play. They want me to play _you_. I'm so excited! Me, Gladys Turlough, gets to be the famous Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye! My boss says this talkie is gonna go right through the roof-a real _boffo smash_!"

To her everlasting credit, Riza Hawkeye maintained her composure and mastered herself and her reaction, since the only 'smashing' that came to mind was a two pound box of top quality hand dipped chocolates hitting Gladys Turlough right in her pouty puss and sending her—_boffo, smash_!—right through the roof for sure.

The words, when she found them, were cool and dignified. "Indeed."

"They won't have to use any special makeup to age me until the final scene. I just hate that icky makeup, don't you? Oh-and they're gonna play up the love story angle to make it sell. So I have to know, honey—how does Roy Mustang kiss?"

Hawkeye's trigger finger began to twitch on the handle of her coffee mug.

"I mean, he's got a real nice looking mouth. Does he use a lot of tongue, or does he, you know, save the tongue stuff for later?"

"Tongue…_stuff?"_

Gladys winked at her. "C'mon, we're both girls. You can tell me. All these years with that hot sex machine. He's got a reputation like nobody would believe. And guys who swing both ways are pretty adventurous. I can't believe you'd hang around him for the better part of twenty five _years_ and he never put his hand under your skirt."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. "Our relationship is—and always has been—_strictly professional_. Anything else is a violation of the army code of conduct."

"If you say so." Gladys made a little moue of disappointment. 'I guess I'll have to find out for myself!"

###

_"Hey."_

On the other end of the line Ed's greeting was subdued. "She's gone?" Roy asked quietly.

"Yeah….I'm okay."

"How are the kids?"

"Better than I thought they'd be. Nina kinda broke down on the trip over but she's trying really hard. She's with Winry. They're….getting Granny ready."

"Good." Of course. That was how it was still done in the country. Just like it was done on the battlefield if you drew 'tag and bag' detail, only Granny would be washed and dressed with more tender concern than a body of a fellow soldier who was barely more than dead meat to be accounted for so they would know whom to send the medal home to. Far kinder to have the hands of loving family and friends perform this last service when one died instead of a mortician in the big city. They would sit up through the night with Granny and in the morning they would carry her coffin down the hill to the green and quiet place beneath the trees where old Doc Rockbell and the rest of Granny's family were buried. "How is Winry taking it?"

"Having the kids and all here is a big help, and Teacher and Sig will be here tomorrow night. Teacher is going to stay up here for a bit to help with the younger kids." Ed sounded very tired. "We have to stay after the funeral," he added. "Granny left a will and Winry says that the kids were left some land—some good property, down near the river. Granny was always hoping Maes would move in and learn the automail business."

Ed's voice trailed off and they sat in silence together. Finally he whispered, "I just needed to…."

_He needed to hear me._ "I know." Roy answered simply.

After nearly five minutes of breathing quietly on the other side, Ed told him that he probably needed to free up the line so the rest of the family could use it. "I'll call you after the funeral." He glanced up at the clock. "Oh. Happy birthday."

Roy grinned. "Thanks. We'll celebrate when you get home, the way we ought to have done. Anything's better than that…_farce_….they've got planned for tomorrow—I mean today."

He could almost hear Ed grinning on the other end of the line. "That bad, eh?"

Roy snorted. "What was that phrase Havoc used to say? 'Crazier than a shithouse rat'? Tell him and Alphonse that Sheska and Hawkeye are keeping things under control—well as under control as you can get in a disaster area."

"Wish I could be there."

"Trust me, you'll be glad you missed this. I'm almost sorry I asked Gracia and Elycia to go with me. Oh—and tell Alphonse the Drachman ballerinas are asking about him."

"No way!" Ed shot back. "He's got women trouble enough to deal with.

"More than usual?"

Ed grumbled, "Yeah, actually. Long story, charts and graphs and too messy to get into now. We'll trade horror stories when I get home." There was an evil chuckle on the other end that made Roy stiffen in his pants. "Right after I give you a birthday spanking. Fifty swats is really gonna burn your ass, old man."

_"You plan to kiss it better?"_

"Don't get me all worked up, you jerk!"

"Mmmmm….I kind of like the idea…" Roy's voice dropped an octave and in Resembool sweat began to pop out on Ed's forehead. "Let's put that big mouth of yours to good use."

"_Fuck you!"_

"The sooner the better," smirked the birthday boy. "Good night!"

"HEY!"

"Yeah?"

"Go ahead and tell 'em tomorrow. Y'know…tell the press about the wedding."

"I'd rather do it with you here."

"Nah, don't wait," Ed was adamant. "They see that black eye I gave you they're gonna think the worst. It's _important_, Roy."

"Will do."

The evil cackle sounded in his ear one more time. "And Garfiel says you need to brush on neutral face powder to set your foundation—and _blend, blend, blend_!"

###

Somewhere, far to the east, a grand old lady was laid to a well-deserved rest after a night where old friends sang and wept and laughed and told stories about her. In the corner, a tired-eye'd young woman sat scribbling down every tale, her brother's long arm draped comfortingly around her slim shoulders.

Somewhere, far to the east in a stolen moment, two old grieving friends, close as siblings, hugged each other in Granny Pinako's pantry just before daybreak. They had met by chance—that's what they told themselves. Just checking to be certain there was enough coffee for the mourners and friends who would be coming to the house after the graveside memorial. "Don't cry," he whispered as he buried his face in her hair. She wound her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss he'd tried to avoid for the past fifteen years.

Somewhere, far to the east, a woman went upstairs and roused her husband, who had taken a few hours rest, knowing how busy they would be today. She tugged down his trousers without a word and rode Pitt desperately, biting back her cries. The good doctor was not at all surprised. Life has a way of seeking to fulfill and replace itself when a loved one dies.

Somewhere, far to the east, a man disappeared alone for several hours. When his older brother found him, he was weeping silently. "S' okay," his older brother told him, misinterpreting his sibling's misery for grief over their shared loss. "It's all gonna be okay in time".

All Alphonse Elric could say, over and over, was _"never…never…"_

###

It was well past midnight and the presses were humming overtime at the printing house of Dickon and Howe and Sons. Earlier that day a blonde tornado ripped its way through the front office, screeching obscenities, swinging a pink leather handbag and threatening _on pain of litigation for breach of contract_ that a new book by Kelley Winchell would be out in the bookstores this November, the damage to the original layouts of _Fire and Vice_ not withstanding.

Mr. Cameron Howe—one of the 'and Sons"-was well-educated, soft spoken and a man of quiet refinement. He found the author's strong-arm tactics offensive and the author herself personally repulsive. Kelley Winchell was a cash cow but her imperious behavior had worn his patience thin, His father, Mr. Howe senior, had urged him to 'keep an open mind' about the popular biographer but it galled him to have even the 'and Sons' part of his title associated with such scurrilous efforts as _Fire and Vice. _He approved of Mustang's sweeping efforts to improve education and regretted he had been too old to attend the Hohenheim Academy when it opened.

A few evenings ago a crew cleaning out the warehouse had brought a box of miscellany to his desk to determine if it was rubbish or lost inventory. One of the new chaps, a tall fellow called Curtis, had handed him a sheaf of yellowed galley proofs for what appeared to be a children's book. "Found these while oiling the backup press. Printing plates found too. Trash this or not?"

A cursory glance gave him a jolt. "What the devil…?" He flipped through the stack and his mild brown eyes went wide in disbelief. After a little while Curtis _harumph'ed_ at his elbow, asking again if Mr. Cam wanted this tossed out with the rest of the night's trash. "Show me the plates, will you, Curtis?"

It was a _treasure_, more precious than the gold of Xenotime. It was very nearly ancient and rare and wonderful and the more noble side of Cameron Howe's soul fretted that it would not be gentlemanly to ever let this manuscript see the light of day. Surely something this dreadful would have been burned years ago or consigned with the piles of unsolicited manuscripts in the warehouse that somehow never got thrown away or responded to.

It was a children's book. Correction—it was a book aimed at a children, rather like the way a Lee-Enfield assault rifle might have been aimed at a village of Ishballans years ago. The date on the yellowed cover letter was 1916 and it was scrawled in lavender ink. The writer implored his father's publishing house to please consider her very first children's book for publication. It was signed 'Maud Kelley Winchell' and was titled "Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf". To his horror, there were several sequels in the pile: "Buckety-Buckety's Special Friend". "Buckety-Buckety's Dress-Up Day". By the time

Cameron Howe read the final entry, "Buckety-Buckety Goes To The Ball", the night crew was checking in on him to make sure he was still breathing. The pretty girl, Chris, brought him a cup of coffee and asked if he was all right. "All right?" He beamed at her, wiping the tears out of his eyes from laughing non-stop for the better part of an hour. "All right? I'm _BRILLIANT!"_

A few minutes later, Curtis returned to the office. "Sor, I got some sketches what fell off that stack o' sheets, there. Want 'em?" He snatched them greedily out of the young man's hands and had to bite back a crow of delight. It was Buckety-Buckety in all his loathsome glory, in an evening gown, fluttering fake eyelashes at his beloved Wibbles the Wolf. He gave Urey Curtis a cash bonus on the spot and ordered him to secrecy.

Cameron Howe didn't tell a soul. In fact, he had planned to print out a few copies from the discovered plates and give it as a gag gift to the other 'Sons' in the publishing firm, but that was before Kelley Winchell roared through his office and clouted him in the head with her purse. He glanced at the calendar, then at the clock. "I can manage a limited run in paperback." He turned to his crew. "Crank 'em out!"

It would take the whole night, but he would drive the three-hundred-copy limited run over to the book stores in the morning, stopping by the bank to deposit a check in the company account to cover the printing expenses. It was a chunk of his inheritance well spent indeed.

So Kelley Winchell had smacked him with her purse and demanded that her newest release hit the streets on Mustang's birthday, eh?

So be it.

###

Roy glanced at the bedside clock and frowned. He had a radio interview first thing in the morning with Donal Samuelson to discuss the gala and announce his impending marriage to Ed. He'd prefer to have Ed with him but it couldn't be helped. He rolled over to Ed's side of the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"_I'm fifty years old."_

Fifty years and ten minutes, to be precise. He'd made his appearance a little before 3 a.m. in a military hospital. His mother died at 2:57 a.m. They had had to use forceps to deliver him since she had ceased to push anymore. "Worst day in your father's life, kid," Aunt Chris had told him.

If Hughes had been here, he'd have gotten Roy drunk. If Ed had been here, he'd have wrapped himself around Roy, inside and out, and left him sweat-soaked, breathless and smiling. If the kids had been here they would have dragged him out of bed for a middle of the night feast of cake and champagne in their robes and slippers, accompanied with silly presents and funny hats and laughter. If his team had been here the traditional bottle of Stray Dog would have passed from hand to hand and the usual round of comic toasts and dedications would have been made amid roars of drunken glee from everyone except Hawkeye.

Instead he was fifty years and ten minutes old and the room was silent. He sighed, put out the light and buried his face in Ed's pillow….

The phone rang—his private line.

There was a familiar, raspy voice on the other end. "Roy-boy."

"Aunt Chris? What's wrong?"

"Nothin's wrong with me, kid." He heard the drag of a cigarette. "But I bet there's something wrong with you—and don't give me any shit about how you're fine. You haven't hit fifty before. I have, so shut up and listen.

"All that shit you hear about getting old is _bullshit_, Roy. Yeah, your body gets more aches and pains—but let me tell you the good part: once you hit fifty—_you REALLY won't give a shit_. You're not the 'golden boy' anymore. You're not a greenhorn pissant, like that bitch in Briggs Mountain used to call you. You got impunity. You don't answer to anybody but yourself. You've done your time. You got the scars. You can do what you want, say what you want and tell the world to go to hell if you want to.

"I want you to take a good, hard look at yourself, boy. Think about something more than just the damn country. You've put it right. It's gonna run fine because you made a good strong foundation. You used to say you wouldn't mind dying in a ditch for your country? FUCK THAT SHIT. You've give Amestris anything and everything. From now on, start thinking about what Roy wants. Marry Ed. See the world. Because your life is now about half over. There's a new hand of cards being dealt you. Make the best of it. You hear me?"

"Yes ma'am!"

"And one thing more…this might have been the worst day of your dad's life….but it was the best day for me. I got _you_." Roy was certain he imagined the sniff he heard on the other end of the phone. "_I love you_, you little bastard. Now get some rest!"

…..TO BE CONTINUED…..


	13. Chapter 13

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 13: "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. PRESIDENT?"

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

Over coffee and donuts, Heymans Breda cleared his throat. "Let's go forward on the assumption that today is going to be an absolute cluster-fuck, okay? That means it can only get better."

The motion was carried with no opposition. "Right. Once this is done, we get a bottle and get shitfaced. Dismissed!"

###

Breakfast was a rare treat—smoked salmon imported from the icy waters of Briggs Mountain, courtesy of Major General Armstrong. "_I don't care if you're fifty—you're still a greenhorn pissant - and I still loathe you only slightly less than my younger brother",_ the card read. Roy saluted the Ice Queen and smirked into his coffee…

_"So…the losing commander should pay a forfeit to the winner. Is that what you are suggesting?" Roy offered Major General Armstrong a confident wink. "That could potentially violate codes of conduct, Ma'am. It could mean…anything."_

_ "This is strictly between you and me, Colonel. I've been wanting to punch that smirk off your idiotic face."_

_ "So this wager does not exclude…physical contact, you're suggesting?" he purred seductively._

_"You revolt me. You don't deserve the privilege of touching my body."_

_ "What if I win? The Briggs troops are outstanding—but nobody is invulnerable."_

_ The smile above her mug of grog was confident and nasty. "You won't." _

_And he never had beaten her, a fact that she taunted him about more than once. Each year after the battle was conceded to Briggs Roy would meet with Armstrong in the War Room, presumably to review the field reports and determine how Mustang's troops had been bested. Nobody really knew what when on behind those closed doors. There were rumors, of course. Mostly they involved manacles and leather dildos and possibly riding crops, none of which were used on the victorious commander. No one ever found out and no rumor had ever been proven as fact—although it was noted that Mustang always looked a little tired and uncomfortable on the long train ride home. _

_ After her most recent victory over him a year before The Promised Day, she had actually implied that if he lost to her again she might require him to own up to the rumors that ran riot behind Mustang's back. "Nobody rises that quickly to the top on his own two feet, Colonel. I've heard you done a lot of overtime on your knees. Your meteoric rise to the top would bear out my suspicions. When the Briggs troops capture your men again next year," her voice was low and threatening, "I'm going to find out exactly how you've done it."_

_"What—you don't' believe that it was my leadership and organizational skills?"_

She held up her sword before him. "I think it was…a more direct approach." She began to slide her blade in and out of the scabbard in a gesture that left little room for misinterpretation.

_Seemed like an eternity_ _ago._

Olivier Armstrong had kept their game of forfeits secret, and while he was no longer involved in the Spring Maneuvers it amused him to think that his current officers had no idea how high the unofficial stakes used to be between Mustang's troops and Brigg's Mountain in the war games—although with Colonel Hawkeye commanding—

"It would _never_ happen. Never in a million years. Colonel Hawkeye would never allow it…probably." He shook his head, dove into his breakfast, preferring not to dwell on the outcome if the two notorious military valkyries ever came to blows.

He was dabbing fresh butter on his muffin and imagining slathering it on a pair of buns far more appealing when the butler discreetly interrupted his pornographic reverie. "Sir, I believe you were recording a segment of that children's reading program this morning after your interview with Mr. Samuelson?"

"Oh, hell. I forgot. And Sheska's too busy to remind me. What do they want?"

Sebastian handed Roy the phone. After a few minutes of listening Roy's dark eyes twinkled dangerously. "I see. Well….under the circumstances I think we can work something out. I'll see you in an hour, gentlemen."

He was still smirking during his morning interview with Donal Samuelson when the topic of his opponents in the upcoming election were discussed. "So far, no-one has openly declared to oppose you. I have a strong hunch this is going to change once the festivities are over. How do you feel about that, sir?"

"I'm ready for the challenge," Roy told the newsman confidently.

"Do you expect your opponents to come from the military or from the civilian sector?"

"Well, Donal, if a candidate meets the qualifications and is prepared to go into this for the fight of his or her life, it hardly matters. The question they should be asking themselves is this: do they have the best interests of the Amestrian people at heart? Do they honestly want to serve the people? Do they understand this is a commitment that will consume the whole of their life—even put their safety at risk—because you can't go into this without being willing to give the whole of yourself and your life, even sacrificing many of the simple pleasures of one's personal life and privacy."

"Speaking of which—I understand from your press secretary that there is going to be an announcement in today's paper regarding your personal life—a very special announcement. Mr. President, you and I have known one another for years—I don't think anyone has followed your career as closely as I have, so if you don't mind….would you consider breaking the story here for our morning listeners?"

Roy's smirk changed to a genuine smile. "I supposed I owe you a scoop after all these years of tailing me, Donal. All right. I had planned to announce this with my partner, Edward Elric, but last night he and our children were in Resembool saying farewell to their grandmother, Dr. Pinako Rockbell-"

"—yes, we aired her obituary on the news this morning-"

"-indeed, and it was well done. We appreciate that tribute. After talking last night with Edward we agreed that I would go ahead and announce this morning that Edward and I will be married this spring when the Institute goes on break for a week."

"You're getting married in the middle of the first election campaign? Don't you think the voters may see this as a bid for public approval?"

Roy chuckled. "I had told Edward years and years ago that, in light of past events, I would leave the decision up to him. He had come to the conclusion during a recent research trip to the Eastern Kingdoms and formally proposed to me in front of our family. Our son and daughter travel a good deal, and the four of us decided that the spring interval was the best time. Naturally, Edward and I would prefer a _quiet_ family wedding-"

"—but this is the first time our nation's leader has ever married while at the helm as Fuhrer or President, making this a state occasion."

"Indeed. There will be compromises from both points of view. Still, this is something I am looking forward to in the year to come and I find on my fiftieth birthday I can't wait to see what the next half-century of my life will bring."

"And slimming down to get into that white wedding dress?" Donal teased.

"Only after the fire brigade puts out the blaze I'm about to make of your suit, _Donal_."

###

"There's common sense—and then there are common _cenz_." A sheaf of green had been folded into a bouquet of roses for each of the Altoid sisters two days before.

Their father was a practical man with bills to pay, He read over the script changes. He examined the costumes. They were within his concept of the bounds of decency. "It's all in good fun," he'd been assured. And, to his thinking, Mustang was soft on foreigners—too damn cozy with the Drachmans and the Cretans. He grunted in approval.

A two finger bag of contraband smokeable herbs was delivered to Duke Brubeck. In lieu of rolling papers he found a folded bindle stuffed with green bills. Brubeck peered over the rims of his shades and shook his head. He wasn't going to get involved. He wasn't going to narc on the senders to those straight arrow military types. Fuck it. He'd show up, play some riffs and then cut out and light up some free weed.

The Maestro nodded at the new score, its pages book marked with crisp banknotes. The ballerinas giggled and agreed to dress up and sing along, especially when they found handfuls of bright coins in the toes of their dancing slippers. The youth symphony only knew they'd been asked to provide accompaniment to a comic patriotic salute to the president. The score was simple—the tune old and familiar.

Sherman Lehrer? "I'll pay _you_ for the privilege. What about the blonde twat?"

"She doesn't need our help. She'll do it all on her own, believe me." Thus the Ice Cream Blonde's bouquet contained only hothouse greenery although arrangements had been made to make sure that several bottles of Miss Turlough's favorite brand of vintage bubbly would be iced to perfection in her dressing room.

A warehouse behind the Central Times office provided makeshift rehearsal space. "Girls, all you have to do is sing on queue and look pretty," Sherman instructed them cheerfully. " Meanwhile, Maestro Williams and the orchestra churned through the patriotic air and none of Breda's team was any wiser. "They sound great, don't they?" Falman was smiling now. The Maestro had stopped his whinging and nit-picking and the rehearsals went smoothly and without bloodshed.

"Y'know…we might just pull this off," Breda told him, slapping the taller man on the shoulder.

###

Kelley Winchell's nails gleamed in a shade that the beauty-shop girls had come to call 'cocksucker pink". It suited the wearer very well indeed. She spent the morning being coifed to perfection, lacquered and buffed and powdered and perfumed. Her smirk was now being lightly touched up with a matching lipstick and after her assistant had paid the bill for her overhaul she stepped into the November sunshine and drew a deep breath. "I'm ready for a bit of luncheon," she gushed enthusiastically. "Nothing too heavy. Don't want any extra pounds for the camera at the gala tonight."

"Il Gattina is right around the corner," the long suffering Matilda pointed out. It would have cheered her heart to see her loathsome employer snubbed at Miss Hughes' restaurant. She'd even risk getting hit by a flailing handbag if only to see Miss Winchell's sedan spattered with garbage again. Besides, the soups were the best in town and today was the chicken-with-barley with half a sandwich special—just the perfect thing for a blustery day.

"I'd rather starve," Kelley snapped. "That young woman is unbearable.' She stalked towards her car and then she paused. "I know just the thing. Take me to Barnes and Walden Books. I'll have a coffee there and you can run out and bring me a to-go salad from Mustang's. That way I won't have to see the old floozy and lose my appetite. I just bet she's got her fat ass over at the corset shop getting winched into a shaper so she won't look like a sack of potatoes when Roy-boy walks her to her seat at the gala." The image of the corset-maker yanking strings with her foot in the middle of Chris Mustang's backside brightened her mood considerably.

That buoyant mood crashed with an audible _thud _ as soon as Kelley Winchell entered the bookstore. Her purse—well stuffed with grimy lipstick tubes and leaking powder compacts and a half-dozen notebooks—bombed to the floor, eliciting an angry chorus of "shhhssshhhhh!" from the customers engrossed in the café area. They were gathered around the wireless set that ordinarily played Radio Capital's programming but instead was tuned to "Mother's Day", which featured special programming aimed at women and their children. Many Centralians would switch over to ABC Blue during the news on "Midday Amestris" to hear the "Barnes and Walden Storytime" segment. It featured famous film and radio celebrities and popular newsmakers of the day reading from children's books. Alphonse Elric had even appeared as a guest reading a charming book his niece Nina had collaborated on called "Fly, Ed, Fly!" It was adapted from an original story Elycia Hughes had written for Maes and Nina when they were much younger.

The deep, sensual voice that purred out of the wireless made her helmet of teased blond hair stand up in shock.

"…._and Buckety-Buckety told Wibbles the Wolf 'when you are sad, I am sad. I am sad-sad-sad, right down to my little-bitty bear toes. Come and have tea with me, Wibbles, and I will make you a cake with pretty pink sugar flowers and I will sing silly bear songs and we will do silly bear dances, and then you will-'"_

A dictionary flew off the shelves overhand with great accuracy from much practice. The wireless set was knocked off it's stand and the silky baritone of President Roy Mustang went silent.

A dozen heads swiveled in her direction. There was a rumble of protest but Kelley was too furious to hear it. Before she could shriek out her fury the bookstore manager hurried to her side. "Miss Winchell? I'm so delighted you stopped by! Your new children's book is just _flying_ off the shelves! President Mustang was going to read _The Alchemist and The Emperor's Pearl_ this morning—he loved that book as a boy, I understand-" Kelley Winchell's mascara'ed eyes began to glaze over "-but since your storybook came out this morning we offered him a choice and he told us he'd be _delighted_ to debut _Buckety-Buckety_ on "Storytime".

Small flecks of foam appeared in the corners of her lipsticked mouth. "Wh—wh….where…d-did-?"

"We had no idea this book was in the works or Barnes and Walden certainly would have set up a book signing and promotional tour for you, Miss-"

"_WHERE… ARE… THOSE… BOOKS?" _ The manager pointed to a prominent display where dozens of copies of _"Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf"_ were prominently displayed. Kelley Winchell paled—and then she broke three fingernails snatching them off the shelf, clutching them to her overstuffed bosom as if she feared they might escape. She raced frantically back and forth to the check out counter until she had emptied the display. Slamming her handbag on the counter she fished for her checkbook.

"May I see a picture ID-oh…that's alright." The manager held up one of the slim volumes and pointed to a hideous picture of a spotty, plump teen with thick glasses and a disastrous hairstyle meant to make the would-be author look sophisticated—a picture that had once been paper clipped to a manuscript that, as years passed, she was grateful had never seen the light of day. _"Why, you've hardly changed a hair, have you, Miss Winchell?"_

###

Backstage, Breda opened the note sent from the President, along with a case of scotch. "When this is over you have my permission to have a nervous breakdown. You've worked hard for it, you owe it to yourself, and no-one has the right to take it away from you. Do us all a favor and open the case AFTER the festivities are over." He grinned to himself. It wasn't smart to get boiled in the middle of the crisis, but as soon as it was over he and his crew would go someplace discreet and tie one on. It was just a shame that the President couldn't do the same.

No, Mustang had to sit up there in the Presidential Box, trussed up in evening dress like some north Drachman penguin. At least he had Gracia and Elycia and Maria Ross and even old lady Mustang up there for company. He was caught up in a maelstrom of half-dressed ballerinas doing leg stretches on the ladders, squabbling musicians, Altoid Sisters doing warm up vocals—

-and Gladys Turlough was nowhere to be found.

_Damn._

Sherman Lehrer tapped him on the shoulder. "She's in her dressing room. Says she has to talk to you before she goes out there. Damn broad is crying her eyes out."

Breda hurried down the steps, cursing under his breath. The door was ajar. "Uh…Miss Turlough? Miss Turlough?" He rapped gently and there was no answer. Nervously, Breda stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him and locked. He could hear something being jammed against the door from the other side….

###

They were midway through the performance and Mustang was greatly relieved that things were going as smoothly as he had hoped. During intermission Hawkeye had joined them for refreshments but refused a glass of champagne. "Any word from Breda?"

"None, sir—but the show is going smoothly. I can go backstage and—"

Roy shook his head. "That's not necessary, Colonel Hawkeye. Return to your post, please." The chimes overhead indicated that the second half of the program was about to begin. This was opening with Professor Sherman Lehrer's comical songs, followed by Duke Brubeck returning to accompany the Altoid sisters—and then Gladys Turlough would NOT be jumping out of a birthday cake. That had been a dead certainty, as was the firm promise that she would keep her breasts covered and her skirt down.

The spotlight at center stage captured Donnel Samuelson who waved to the cheering crowd. "And now, Ladies and Gentlemen—Professor Sherman Lehrer-" he paused to allow the wild applause to subside a little, "—in a salute to our Commander in Chief!"

The curtains parted and the Professor appeared in a black wig and a the uniform of an Amestrian colonel, snoozing behind a desk. The phone onstage began to ring loudly until an Altoid sister, dressed like Lieutenant Hawkeye, strode across the stage and tapped the Professor on the shoulder. _"Sir…Sir? SIR!"_ The "Colonel" awoke with a start. "Sorry to disturb your nap but Bunny is on line two, Vanessa is on line three, Jeanette is on line four, and Elizabeth is on line five."

"Who's on line one?"

"The VD clinic, sir!"

"Is it important? I don't have the clap, do I?"

The "lieutenant" turned to the audience. "With all those women calling,sir? I'd say you've got APPLAUSE!"

"WOMEN!?" A loud angry voice was heard offstage and moments later an Altoid Sister dressed in black with a long red coat stomped across the stage, a large metal garbage pail under his arm. The garbage can was tossed to the actress playing Hawkeye. "Take care of my brother, willya? The Bastard n' me gotta talk." The girl playing Ed stomped up Leher. "MUSTANG! I'm getting really damn sick of you and your fooling around on me!"

"Why Edward….just think of it as equivalent exchange! All those lovely ladies are well connected to powerful men. I give them candy. I give them flowers. I buy them lobster dinners—"

"And come home with the crabs!"

"Ed…Ed….now, don't be jealous…it's not like I can help it. I'm irressitable—"

"-AND contagious!"

Lehrer stepped out from behind the desk and burst into song:

_I have to admit it's annoying—when other men call me a prick—_

_ My good looks may intimidate them—but mostly they envy my-_

"-dictation, sir?"

"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!"

"Ed" shook his head and began to sing:

_That uniform's butch and it suits you-At home you sport satin and lace_

_ You trowel on cosmetics like plaster—to hide all those lines on your face!_

The curtains rolled back to reveal two dozen ballerinas in uniform joining in as Lehrer launched into the chorus:

_Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!_

_ Sling back, sling back—tuck that big-EGO!—out of sight_

"Mustang" continued:

_-Men shun me when hitting the nightspots-around me the ladies all flock_

_If my friends get jealous, well, screw 'em! I can't help the size of my-_

"-Cocktail, sir?"

"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!"

"Ed" strutted to the edge of the stage and sang towards the Presidential Box:

_You think he's a real ladykiller—pursuer of skirts, you'd suppose!_

_The truth is, he's raiding their wardrobes. He only likes girls for their CLOTHES!_

_Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!_

_ Sling back, sling back—tuck that big-_

**_"EGO!"_****, ** yelled the crowd

_—out of sight_

"Roy" looked indignant and appealed to the audience.

_I'll find me some better companions -who won't let silly things come between...us_

_ Like politics, sport—and especially—the phenomenal size of my-_

**_"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!" _** the audience roared on cue.

"Ed" was now swaggering around the stage as he launched into his final verse.

_Roy keeps all his clothes in the closet-in spite of his ranking and class-_

_ And the reason you won't get rebuttal—he's too busy waxing his-_

**_"NOT NOW, HAWKEYE!" _** The actress playing the blonde lieutenant threw up her hands in disgust and marched off stage as they launched into the final chorus

_Sling back, sling back—tuck in and dress to the right, tonight!_

_ Sling back, sling back—tuck that big-_

**_"EGO!"_**

_—out of sight_

The applause was deafening.

…TO BE CONTINUED….

Author's Note:

Special thanks to my very talented friend Nochick_Fics for allowing me to take her original poem about Roy and rework it as lyrics, adding my own Edwardian "rebuttals" . She is as generous as she is a wonderful storyteller-and whenever her Roy!Muse faces off in a poetry slam against my Ed!Muse it's always a blast. Cheers, Chickie!-Aunty B.


	14. Chapter 14

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 14: "THE SHOW MUST GO ON"

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

There WERE worse places to get stuck in the ladies' lavatory. This one, at least, was clean. Unfortunately it was upstairs behind the lighting booth and with the noise of the show onstage nobody heard her beating on the door and yelling to be let out. In the end, Sheska sighed in resignation and dug into her handbag for some reading material. "Oh well…at least I've got someplace to sit down. But if Miss Turlough wasn't being sick in here," she fretted, "where on earth could she be?"

###

The business end of a bassoon was poking Vato Falman in the rump. It was too dark to see in the orchestra locker but from the odd way his shouts for help were echoing he was fairly sure there was a tuba in front of him. He kicked himself mentally. If Gladys Turlough was crying her eyes out and crumbling from the pressure of performing for the President, why would she have gone down into the practice room and hidden in the instrument locker? Her fur coat was in there, yes, and her distinctive perfume lingered in the air but as soon as Falman bent to pick up the coat the door slammed shut behind him and locked. Judging from the sound he heard afterwards a rolling rack of orchestra chairs had been pushed in front of the door, giving him no way to get out even if he could jimmy the door open.

###

_"Chin up."_

Elycia's eyes brimmed with tears. A gloved hand slipped into hers and squeezed tightly. She glanced at Uncle Roy and he was smiling. He released her hand and applauded Professor Sherman Lehrer and the Altoid Sisters and the chorus who had been public ally mocking him from the stage. "That was horrible!" she whispered.

"That was _political satire_. And rather mild compared to what I've heard before." He turned his eyes briefly to her. "Don't let them see your anger. Smile for me," he winked at her now, "and never let them see they've hurt you. The show must go on—and right now you and I are center stage up here."

From behind, there was a grunt of agreement and Chris Mustang leaned forward. "Think of something else—like dumping the grease trap over that dame Winchell's car."

"Or," her mother added, "Miss Winchell finding out that Uncle Roy read her awful bear story on the radio."

Elycia couldn't suppress a giggle. She'd aired it in the restaurant and had laughed so hard she'd feared she'd wet herself over Uncle Roy's droll delivery of the dreadful prose, every sentence double dipped in a smooth coating of sarcasm. His performance had been the talk of the town and earned a round of applause. She glanced back to Roy and found she could return his smile wholeheartedly. "You would have been a great actor, Uncle Roy."

His smile deepened and he kissed her hand. "My dear, I think you're beginning to grasp the full nature of Amestrian Politics."

###

"Hey, where's snow top and the book chick?" Brubeck glanced around backstage. "I ain't seen buzz cut fat boy around either."

Donal Samuelson looked frantic. "What the hell is going on around here? Our director is gone—and where the devil is Miss Turlough?"

Brubeck lit up a cigarette. "That broad is all curves and crazy angles—don't seem to me like she's bug out on a gig, though." From behind the curtains they could hear the audience singing along with Professor Sherman, roaring with laughter. "My gig's up next." He slapped Donal on the shoulder. "Show's gotta go on, man. Show's gotta go on…."

###

A pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses were turned towards the pale man in the black tuxedo. He was applauding and smiling as if it meant nothing to him to be lampooned as a cross-dressing bisexual with venereal disease was all in a days' work to him. The Hughes girl was clearly upset, though. That gave Kelley Winchell a small degree of satisfaction. How must it feel, she mused spitefully, to have your hand kissed by the same lips that sucked your father's cock?

"I'll never know how you got your filthy hands on my book, Mustang….but I'll get even with you if it's the last thing I do…"

###

_No windows. Door isn't just locked—it's jammed shut. There's no phone in here to call out and the intercom isn't working._ "Could be worse," Breda admitted to himself. "I could actually be stuck in here with Gladys Turlough."

Dispassionately, he assessed the situation. If someone were planning to shoot Mustang, Hawkeye and Ross were on point, plus a dozen or more of the security detail scattered across the theater. The Boss had his gloves on.

He'd been called to the dressing room by a stage hand—he'd find out the kid's identity and question him. A cursory examination of the dressing room revealed little information other than Miss Turlough's preferences for dry champagne, chocolate covered cherries, movie magazines and menthol cigarettes. There was a platter of finger sandwiches with the crusts daintily trimmed off and a percolator of fresh coffee set out for Miss Turlough. There was also an unopened box of Xerxes Brand Condoms—prelubricated with reservoir tips—in the drawer of her dressing table. _Havoc_. _You idiot!_ Breda was disappointed that his old friend had given in to temptation-and since the box was unopened Breda felt uneasy that Jean might wind up in more trouble than just cheating on Hawkeye.

There was no sense wasting energy. Breda poured himself a cup of coffee, helped himself to some finger sandwiches and sat down to wait…

###

"What?"

"It's almost over." Uncle Roy's voice was soft and low as he applauded Duke Brubeck's encore. The jazz pianist and his quartet had brought the tone of the evening back to a more civilized theme with his six minute performance of "Burning Man Suite", written for the guest of honor. It was complex listening and Uncle Roy seemed to enjoy it very much, rising now and nodding to the jazz master who flipped the President a smile and irreverent salute, which Mustang returned. "What did you think?"

"I think I like the Altoid sisters better," she admitted, preferring their close harmonies, catchy melodies and swing rhythms to Brubeck's more sophisticated sounds.

"They're coming up next with an encore. Unfortunately, they're coming on with Sherman Lehrer again. Brace for impact."

Elycia was ready. "Chin up," she told him with a smile that faltered at the sound of a patriotic fanfare from Maestro William's orchestra. "It _can't_ be as bad as the last one, can it?"

The Altoid Sisters were revealed as the curtain opened and Margi. Maci and Mazi appeared in State Military uniforms. Mazi was back in the Riza Hawkeye wig. Margi, who had played Ed in the previous sketch, now wore thick-rimmed black glasses and a mousy brown hairstyle, while Maci sported a short black crop and a beauty mark under one eye. Behind her, Elycia heard Ross fumble for the opera glasses provided in the box. "Wait a minute….is that supposed to be _me_?"

"I'm afraid so, Ross. And I don't believe Sheska is going to find this amusing, any more than Colonel Hawkeye," Roy affirmed.

"Sheska" saluted the audience:

_When questioned about his ambition to become Fuehrer, Roy Mustang brashly proclaimed that when he ascended to power, "all female officers will be required to wear TINY MINISKIRTS, much to the chagrin of First Lieutenant Hawkeye and to the delight all the men on his staff. The reason this decree was never enforced has been a classified millitary secret…until now…_

_ When just a lowly Colonel, Mustang proudly did declare:_

_"Soon as I'm appointed Fuehrer there will be some changes here_

_Commencing with the blue fatigues the girls are forced to wear_

_Those hems are on the rise!"_

Dressed again as President Mustang, Professor Sherman Lehrer stood up behind the same prop desk again and burst into song:

_"Despite persistent rumors, I'm as straight as any guy—" _

The Professor glanced up to where Gracia and Elycia were sitting beside Roy in the Presidential box. _"Just ask Hughes!"_

_"Famed for stealing every girlfriend who attracts my roving eye_

_So ladies, ditch your trousers and prepare to show some thigh_

_Your hems are on the rise!"_

From behind the desk popped up a quartet of chorus boys dressed like Falman, Breda, Havoc and Fuery. The vague suggestion that they had been below the desk servicing their superior officer was implied by their slightly disheveled appearance and misbuttoned uniforms.

"_Glory, Glory hallelujah!_

_Hems are risin', what's it to ya?_

_Chilled Amestris breezes runnin' thru ya_

_Your hems are on the rise!"_

"Ross" and "Hawkeye" leaned in close and winked broadly at one another:

"_Now, Hawkeye told Maria Ross, "This order is absurd,_

_There's no way they can enforce it, Mustang hasn't got the nerve_

_Being useless ain't his biggest fault-the man's a total perv_

_Whose mind is on our thighs._

_ Let's edit it a fraction, then we'll post it to his tray_

_Change the gender of the pronoun in the rule announced today—"_

A tenor soloist in a bald wig cap and a thick blond mustache crawled out from under the desk, struck a muscular pose and gestured towards the Altoid sisters:

_"Sure enough, he didn't read it, he just signed it anyway_

_With great salacious sighs…"_

The chorus rang out again, with a bevy of unformed ballerinas goose-stepping up the aisles of the theater. Ross shot her President a sour look. "It was a joke. I told Havoc and Hawkeye I was kidding," the President assured her. "Although I'll be very interested in finding out how the hell anyone found out about a private joke."

"Sir, I assure you Colonel Hawkeye-" Ross began heatedly before Mustang cut her off.

"Had to have been Major Havoc. Easy, Ross. It's no big deal."

"Sir, with all respect, they're making a fool of you."

"Comes with the job. At ease, Ross."

"Hawkeye" began her solo:

"_Their eyes beheld the glory as those hems began to rise_

_They proclaimed their admiration of those ankles, calves and thighs_

_Half the staff broke out in nosebleeds, Kain and Jean were paralyzed_

_At miniskirts—on….guys?!_

_And all the MEN on the staff cried as one voice?"_

_"HELL, NO!"_

_ "And all the women on the staff cried as one voice?"_

_ 'HELL YES!"_

"_And Fuhrer Mustang cried—"_

_ "OH, SHIT!"_

_ "And Maes Hughes cried out?"_

From the proscenium arch above the stage an actor with a beard, glasses and wings like a Letoist spirit of grace descended from a wire, waving a handful of photographs.

_"ANYBODY WANT TO SEE SOME PICTURES OF MY KID?"_

There was a gunshot sound effect and "Hughes" dropped to the stage. Elycia took in a sharp, horrified breath. She couldn't tear her eyes from the stage but beside her she heard the frosty voice of Roy Mustang. "This has ceased to be amusing."

The "Hughes" character got up, brushed off his wings and slung an arm around "Mustang"

"It's all right, Roy. I've still got your back." He winked at the audience. "As usual!"

"Roy" smiled back at him. "Good man, Hughes! Dead or alive, an officer never leaves his buddy's…._behind_."

The audience went berserk, whooping and cheering for nearly a full minute before the performers could continue…

###

In the wings Donal Samuelson glanced around frantically. Gladys Turlough was coming on at the end of this sketch and she was nowhere to be found. "Looks like your bird flew the coop, dude!" Brubeck told him sympathetically. "I was kinda hoping she'd pop out of the cake—"

"I'll get Margi to pop out in the Ed costume—she won't have to change-unless you've got a better idea?"

###

"Goddamn flat tire!" The stage door from the alley was jerked open and banged shut. "Goddamn motherfucking-broken fan belt!" An astonished stage hand was rudely shoved out of the way. "Goddamn freezing out there—where the hell is my fucking coat?….goddamn icy sidewalk—ten FUCKING blocks I gotta walk in heels—_what the hell is this shit_?"

It took several shoves and kicks before the upright piano creaked and rolled away from in front of the dressing room door.

The lock clicked and Heymans Breda whipped out his sidearm and pointed it at the head of a very dirty and rumpled looking Gladys Turlough, who had what appeared to be motor oil stains all over her dress and hands.

They stared at one another for several heartbeats. Then she snarled at him. "You _ate_ my goddamn sandwiches?"

###

_"No one dares to look up Armstrong's kilt—the guy's too big and strong_

_Falman's fetching in his spandex, tho' his taste in shoes is wrong_

_Heymans Breda's in the guardhouse in a leopard print sarong_

_More suited to his size—EVERYBODY!"_

This time it was a golden banner bearing the lyrics of the chorus that dropped from the proscenium and the dead Hughes was conducting the audience in a grand sing-along of the chorus:

"_Glory, Glory hallelujah!_

_Hems are risin', what's it to ya?_

_Chilled Amestris breezes runnin' thru ya_

_Your hems are on the rise!"_

"Hawkeye" began to sing softly as the tempo slowed from the previous march:

_When Fullmetal read the order, Ed was blushing like a rose__**…**_

_He assaulted Fuhrer Mustang, kicked his tail and broke his nose…_

_ 'Cause his automail appendage looks like hell in pantyhose_

_It's hard to find his size..."_

###

"Lissen, tubby—I ain't got time for this," Gladys snapped. "You got your fat ass locked up in my dressing room. I got picked up by a taxi that got a flat tire AND broke a belt and had to walk ten blocks IN HEELS without a coat. I gotta go on in about three minutes and I'm RUINED!"

Breda shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Miss Turlough! We can find you another dress—"

"FUCK the dress!" she bellowed. _"I'm a professional!_ Outta my way!" She pushed past Breda and stomped up the steps, patting her blond hair into place and headed for wings. Breda stared after her. He smiled.

"Damn….what a woman!"

###

Margi Altoid had just delivered a comic rant in her Edward Elric costume and planted a huge kiss on the lips of "Roy Mustang" as planned. After a thunderous ovation, she slipped backstage and attempted to crawl inside the giant pasteboard birthday cake that was to be wheeled into the middle of the stage.

A pointed toed pump caught her right in the midsection and she was yanked inside. There was a scuffle, but it went unheard by the stagehands. "Margi? Are you in there?" Donal Samuelson stage-whispered as loudly as he daired. There was a bumping sound and a muffled voice from inside. "Good girl! We're pusihing you out on stage in three…two…"

###

Roy swore softly under his breath as the cake rolled into view, pushed by Samuelson as emcee. The cast of the "Miniskirt Army" sketch marched out onto the stage.

_Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!_

_ May the candles on your cake-Burn like cities in your wake!_

_ Your demise will not be far—now you are the age you are!_

_ All your foes will wail and weep—slay them all, but spare the sheep!_

_ Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!_

_Don't forget what you should learn—first you loot and THEN you burn-***_

_ "STOP THAT! Stop it right now!" _ A very furious Gladys Turlough kicked her way out of the birthday cake, crawled out and angrily slapped Professor Sherman across the face. "Show some respect!"

Her evening gown was torn and grimy. Her hair was a rat's nest and her makeup was smeared. "Lissen to me!" she yelled. "Some rat-bastards have been tryin' to make this night a mess. This wasn't the way we rehearsed it—none of that dirty stuff about Mr. President. It was…it was …._nice_, ya know? 'Cause he's a nice man. He _really_ is."

She shielded her eyes from the spotlight and peered up to the Presidential Box. "Mr. President? I'm sorry I'm late. My car broke down. I tried to fix the fan belt with one of my stockings but it didn't work. Maybe I coulda made these guys behave if I'd got here on time. I still wanna sing, though. Is that okay?"

Roy rose and bowed to the acrtress, smiling warmly. "Miss Turlough, I'd be honored."

Grease smeared across her nose, one earring missing, Gladys Turlough stood straight and lifted her breathy, little girl voice, gesturing for the crowd to join in:

_"Happy birthday to you—Happy birthday to you!_

_ Happy birthday Dear-President-Mustangggggggg-_

_ Happy birthday toooooooo youuuuuuuu_-_AND YOU'VE GOT MY VOTE_!"

###

"More champagne?"

Sheska shook her head, reaching for the Stray Dog. The theater was emplty except for the cleaning crew. Once the gala was over a house search quickly freed Falman and Sheska. "Who do you think was behind all this?"

"That Sherman guy. Whatta _putz_!" Gladys was snugging back into the folds of her beloved mink.

"I think it was the Maestro," Falman corrected, accepting a cup of coffee with a splash of scotch to foritfy it."

"We'll leave this to the investigations team. No real harm has been done—" Roy began but Hawkeye cut him off.

"Sir, what if they had tried to kill you?"

"Well," he sighed, "they didn't. It was tasteless—at least the parts about Maes—but noththing I can't live down." He glanced at Donal Samuelson. "I believe your listening audience had quite a few shocks tonight. May have a rough time with your network censors."

Donal smiled expansively. "I'm sure they'll forget all about it when they see tomorrow—no, _today's_ headline story."

Roy took a sip of scotch. "Really?"

"Yes, really. Your first political opponent declared their candidacy twenty minutes ago. It will be all over the wires before breakfast."

Roy looked amused. "Let me guess. Major General Armstrong has been my rival for years. She's ready to challenge me for the presidency at long last."

"That's where you're wrong…_Roy_." Donal Samuelson smiled. He slipped on his winter coat and straightened his fedora. "It's _me._ Have a good evening!"

….TO BE CONTINUED…..

( AUTHOR'S NOTE-lyrics to "Revenge Of The Miniskirt Army" by The Binary Alchemist, 2007-performed at Anime Weekend Atlanta 2009. ***The "Barbarian Birthday Song" verses are traditional from the Society of Creative Anachronism and date back to the 1970's-original authors unknown but appreciated and acknowledged here)


	15. Chapter 15

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 15: "WORSE THINGS TO BETTER PEOPLE"

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Five minutes after she left Dr. Knox's office Riza Hawkeye reviewed her short list of items that needed to be attended to for the day.

Item 1: Investigation of the events that occurred during the Presidential Gala.

Granted, no actual harm had been done. The President's life had not been in danger…but that was beside the point. Three members of the team had been detained, delayed, or otherwise caught off guard during the evening. As soon as Jean got back from Resembool a full staff meeting would be scheduled, and Hawkeye suspected it would be conducted in full military fashion in an area far enough from the press and the household staff that might be alarmed at the sound of President Mustang in full-on Bastard Mode™.

Nowadays there was a huge staff of men and women who were paid well to make certain Mustang's orders were followed to the letter. Jean called them HC's, short for High Crapers. "As in, if Mustang says 'Crap!' they ask 'how high, Sir?'" However, the HC's had no control over a non-government sponsored cultural event like the Gala. If Vato Falman could end up locked in a closet full of tubas and nobody looked for him to get him out, the Presidential Team would be the first of many to have their asses dragged over the coals. Hawkeye herself would do some of that raking, but first she would stand at attention in the ranks of her companions and face the fire of Mustang's wrath.

Item 2: Obtain references of the top ten best wedding consultants in Central City.

Gracia Hughes volunteered to assist with finding someone to help coordinate the details of the Presidential Wedding—and unlike the disaster of the Gala would be strictly under Hawkeye's management. "I know I can trust you with this," Mustang had told her. It was not a compliment or a suggestion. It was a direct order. She would follow it obediently to the letter, regardless how she felt about the impending nuptials.

Item 3: Make sure the construction alchemists had finished the details on the children's gift to the President. Nina and Maes had been working on the plans for some time, holed up in the large guest bath down the hall from the Presidential living quarters. Mustang knew they were up to something and there were a lot of energy flashes and even more cursing going on behind the closed doors. Hawkeye was privy to the plans. Mustang would like them….probably.

Item 4: Ed's present.

Had she been a different sort of woman her instinctive response to the gift would have been "ewwww". It was in deep cold storage, in a small tank of liquid nitrogen. Presumably, it would be fine for the time being.

Item 5: Escort the Elrics from the Aerodrome. The President wanted to meet his family, in spite of the security risks. She didn't like it but she would do as she was ordered.

Item 6: Replace the radio in the President's secretarial staff office.

As soon as Mustang heard the "Midday Amestris" hostess Eleanor announce that Donal Samuelson had been replaced by the returning Frank Archer, a spontaneous eruption of sparks caused the radio to burst into flames. The President's comment? _"Whoops."_

Archer had been out of jail for years, having served only 18 months for his part in the security breach at the Palace 15 years ago when Edward first moved in. His inside informant, a valet named Claude, had been sent north to Briggs mountain under General Armstrong. He had been luckier than he knew. She didn't gut him and throw his entrails to the wolves of the steppes. However, he became involved in some minor intrigues and the last anyone heard the General had stated "He's serving under General Raven". There was something about the odd look on Vato Falman's face when he delivered the cryptic message that made Mustang disinclined to ask further questions.

Archer had been on his best behavior since then, keeping a low profile and penning a series of highly readable "coffee-table books", like "This Gilded Age", "Jeweled Splendor of the Eastern Kingdoms", "Table City: Stairway To The Gods", and "The Lost City of Xerxes". Lots of pretty pictures to flip through and the accompanying text was actually rather entertaining. He had been a guest on Radio Capital several times doing travel segments and no-one, save Mustang, had paid him any real attention.

After the smoke had cleared and the charred remains of the radio hauled to the trash, Mustang had gestured her to his side. "So…Samuelson announces a bid for the Presidency and Frank Archer takes his place at Radio Capital." His handsome face looked shrewd and thoughtful. "Interesting."

"Shall I investigate, Sir?"

A gloved hand lifted in caution. "Easy, Hawkeye. Let's not jump to conclusions…yet. However, keep an ear to the ground and coordinate with Madame Christmas. I want to know what they are up to."

Item 7: Dr. Knox—appointment, 07:00

He had asked her to come in for an examination. "I hadn't heard from you," he told her gruffly. "You were to be contacted."

"I beg your pardon, Doctor. Who was supposed to contact me?"

He began drawing up a syringe. "Are you allergic to Penicillium-type antibiotics?"

She looked wary. "No, I'm not. Is there a reason—"

"Roll up your sleeve, Colonel."

"Not until I have an explanation. Why do I need antibiotics? Have I been exposed to a health hazard?"

After she left the office, she pulled out her notebook, went over the seven items on her list and modified it.

"Item eight," she said softly under her breath. _"Kill Jean Havoc."_

###

Havoc couldn't put his finger on it, but something was definitely out of sorts with Maes Elric. Something out of character in the kid's demeanor had Havoc on the alert.

Maes was the one who was in a great hurry to get out of Resembool shortly after the reading of Pinako's will the day after her funeral. He'd been fine up to that point, loving and supportive of his mother and step-siblings. Havoc had been smoking on the porch and had overheard Winry commenting that it would be a great time for Maes to move east from Central and open up shop with her at the automail clinic as an engineer. "Granny's left him a nice piece of land. He can build a house there if he doesn't want to move in with the rest of us," she had told Alphonse. "I'm hoping Nina might come too, although she'll probably stay and teach at the Hohenheim."

Sometime after the funeral Maes and Nina had been doing some alchemy out in the back yard. Maes had asked if he could take some material from an old reaping sickle that had been made from a bit of Al's old armor. Winry hadn't minded and so the brother and sister worked together out in the chilly afternoon air with a great deal of secrecy. Alphonse had gone out to check on them and had not come back until much later. When they all met together at supper, Maes was tense and uncharacteristically closed-mouthed and Winry looked very worried.

Havoc was a little worried too. After all, he'd known Maes since he was a cheerful, milkshake-spitting, potty-mouthed rug rat with a penchant for running naked through the palace covered in mud or soapsuds or, on one memorable occasion chocolate pudding and beef gravy. Hawkeye had been more interested in puppies than kids so he'd come to feel like family to Maes and Nina Elric as much as their bodyguard. Now Maes was big enough to beat the crap out of Havoc, and if the dark expression on his face was any indication he was in one of those infrequent foul moods that made Havoc approach with caution.

Havoc offered Maes a box lunch he'd bought at the East City Aerodrome. 'Here. It's better than it looks. Ham on rye with mustard and mayo packets. This one has pretzels, pickles and an apple pie turnover. You hungry?"

Maes waved it away. "You eat it." Nina shot him a sympathetic glance. Ed looked up from his newspaper, frowning. Maes normally would have eaten the lunch, the lunch box and Nina's dessert as well. What was ailing the kid?

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Ed asked bluntly.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. You aren't eating, you aren't running your mouth and you didn't even say goodbye to your mother or Uncle Pitt or even Alphonse when you tore out of there." He folded his paper and reached for the unwanted box lunch. "Rude as shit. That's not you—that's _me_ Teacher raised you better than that. You wanna tell me what's going on?"

Maes didn't glance at his father. "No…_sir_."

"You wanna tell your sister? You've been snapping at her all through the flight."

Wide golden eyes darted over, making brief contact with his sister's anxious face. "I know. I'm sorry, Nitwit. I just….never mind." The young man pulled out an electronics magazine and absorbed himself in an article about Tesla coils being replaced by vacuum tube transmitters in radiograph equipment. The magazine was upside down. Maes didn't seem to notice….

When the door of the discreet black staff car was opened by Havoc, Nina slid in and was immediately pulled into a close embrace by her beloved Poppy. Her reserve melted and she buried her face against the front of his heavy winter coat. He kissed the top of her head. "I'm proud of you. Alphonse told me you were very brave."

"I didn't feel brave," she admitted.

"No one was the wiser. That's what real bravery is all about." As Maes climbed in, Roy's arm reached around his shoulders. "Welcome home, son. I know your mother was glad she could depend on you through all this."

Maes gave him a queer look. "She didn't need me."

Roy glanced at Ed who shook his head in an imperceptible 'don't ask' gesture. Roy's head barely nodded. "Well, I do, and I'm glad you to have you back so I can finally celebrate my birthday."

"Yeah, I read about that in the papers," Ed was grinning now as he slapped his lover sharply across the shoulder. "What the fuck was that all about?"

"I'll be very interested to find out," Roy replied darkly. "Hawkeye? Let's go."

Havoc slipped into the front seat beside his lover. She didn't even look at him. He dug in his pocket for a light.

_"I hate cigarettes."_

Hawkeye's words dropped through the air like the blade of an axe across the neck of a condemned man.

_She knows_. Havoc felt sick and it was a long time before he broke the silence. "My apologies, Colonel Hawkeye." The cigarette and lighter went into hiding.

So did Havoc's heart.

###

A callused finger chased the last crumbs from the dessert plate and then licked it clean. "At least one of my sisters is a genius in the kitchen." Maes was smiling now, saluting Elycia with a grin that relieved his immediate family.

"Alchemy began in the kitchen, or so we're told." Nina's eyebrow inched up a fraction as she sipped her coffee. "You're passably competent as an alchemist, brother. You might try your hand at the culinary arts. A bit of effort and I'm sure you would be a…._masterbaker._"

Roy nudged his lover. "I was hoping your scintillating wit might skip a generation." Ed just grinned and shoveled down another mouthful of cake. It was dark chocolate filled with chocolate rum panache and drenched in a bittersweet chocolate glaze. When the fifty golden candles were alight, Ed had observed that if Roy didn't have the breath to blow them out he could always beat them out with his cane. A snap from the President and the fifty flames were smugly extinguished. "You've outdone yourself, Elycia. Consider yourself hired to bake our wedding cake." The young woman blushed and stammered that she didn't have the decorating skill for such a grand occasion. "If that's all you're worried about, you can hire in a sugar artist to add the details if you like—but this, " he gestured with his fork towards his now-empty plate," by itself is as good as it gets. Ed and I don't want a fuss. Whatever you make will be perfect Now then, Ed," Roy turned back to his lover, "Sebastian tells me my birthday present has been hidden in the meat locker since it arrived. I'm going to assume it's not the ice cream, right? What kind of treat do you have for us?"

Edward suddenly choked on his coffee and began to stammer nervously. "It's…ah…well…" he rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. "It's…um…not a dessert."

"No? Then what is it doing in the palace meat locker with the rest of the food?" Roy frowned and gestured for Collins. "Did you bring it down with the rest of the presents?"

Collins nodded. "It's right outside in the hall, Your Excellency. Shall I—"

"NO!" Ed was looking frantic. "I…I mean," he spluttered, "we can…y'know…do this later, right? I mean…KIDS! You've got to show Roy your present! C'mon, they've been working so hard on this project of theirs-"

"Bring it in. _Now_." Collins bowed, stepped out and wheeled the crate in. A thin mist trailed behind it. Sebastian bowed and offered the President a pry bar.

Maes and Nina exchanged baffled looks. What the hell was their father getting so agitated over? And when the vat of liquid nitrogen was revealed, neither seemed any the wiser about its contents.

There were a pair of insulated gloves and tongs included in the crate. Ed was babbling now. "Uh…really…Roy…you might want to open this-"

"—right now," Roy finished, tugging the gloves on over his scarred hands. "If you're this unnerved about whatever's inside it _has_ to be one hell of a surprise."

And it was.

Gracia peered inside. "What in the world?"

All eyes turned on Ed. He shrugged sheepishly. "Well…..y'know…you _said_ you always wanted a pony for your birthday when you were a kid …so…"

Borrowing the tongs, Nina reached inside and retrieved a stoppered glass test tube. It's frozen contents were milky and opaque. The young alchemist studied the vial with great interest.

"What is it?" Elycia wanted to know.

"Call it…'prepony'." A corner of Roy's mouth curved up with barely restrained mirth.

Gracia looked puzzled. "Or maybe 'antepony'?" Maes suggested.

Nina was counting the vials. "Hmmmm, looks like about a dozen samples of 'forepony'. Maybe 'protopony'?"

"I don't get it." Elycia shook her head,

Maes winked at his father. "Wow, Dad. I'm impressed. Took a lot of…_spunk_…to…_come_ …up with a gift like this!"

Elycia was getting cross. "I still don't get it. Stop beating around the bush. What is it, sir?"

The word 'beating' sent Maes into hysterics. Nina tossed her brother a look of cool annoyance. "It's equine ejaculate, Elycia. And if I'm reading the labels correctly these aren't from Xing. These came from the Eastern Kingdoms." She was smiling now. "Dad has brought some fresh bloodlines into Poppy's breeding program."

Ed was crimson with embarrassment. "Uh…yeah. I..I mean…what do you get the many who has everything?" His hands gestured helplessly. "Nobody in the Kingdoms would let me take any livestock out of the country…so…well…"

"Let me get this straight, Ed. You smuggled viable horse semen out of the Kingdoms?"

"Yeah. Found an alchemist in Xing who worked with ice."

"How exactly did you get the samples?"

Ed buried his face in his hands. "You _really_ don't want to know. And I really don't wanna remember." He glared at his children. "And for the record—I did NOT gather the samples personally—"

"I'm confident you had a…_hand_…in procuring it, Daddy," Nina quipped dryly.

"I DID NOT! I found a…there was this guy, okay? He knew how to…collect…"

-you mean you pimped out for a pony, Dad?" He pointed at his stepfather. "And he said you were the morally bankrupt one around here!"

"The guy was Xingese horse breeder, goddamn it! He—he-"

It would have been more amusing to keep needling their father but even Maes knew when to quit. He dug into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a small box, passing it to Nina, who _hemm-hemmed_ in an attempt to restore order. "Moving right along, _gentlemen_, Maes and I have two presents for you." She gestured towards the second floor above them. "Maes and I have turned the big nursery bathing room into a Nihonese wooden bathhouse tub. Uncle Al got us the designs." Something flickered behind her brother's expression and his smile faltered. Edward missed it in his excitement. "Uncle Ling quite enjoys his. Maes and I made a few modifications so that—" she blushed prettily "—so that Daddy can rest his leg on some moveable supports inside the tub. He—"

"Are you saying-?"

"-you'll be able to float, Ed." The hot, sly look Roy offered him suggested a world of potentially erotic opportunities that caused sweat to pop out on Ed's forehead. "Can we use it tonight?" he asked quickly. When Maes nodded, Roy rose abruptly and pretended to yawn dramatically, peering at the mantle clock. "My, my, just look at the time. Ladies, no sense in heading out on a cold, wet night. Sebastian will set you up in the guest suite, Gracia—I'm sure the young ladies will want to sit up and talk half the night. Now, if you'll excuse us, I feel like a long soak in a hot tub -"

"Wait!" Maes blurted out. He snatched the small box from his sister and held it out to Roy. "I…made you guys something." He looked awkward. "Nina helped."

Roy opened the box, Ed peering over his shoulder. After a long, thoughtful silence Roy held up a gleaming band of polished steel. The salamander crest had been engraved upon it in a manner that looked like a man's signet ring. "_And I shall set your name as a seal and sigil upon my heart, for Love is stronger than Death," _Roy murmured, half to himself, half to Edward, quoting the Ishballan Desert Songs from the tattered book of forbidden love poetry that the ancient Sage Rumi had written for his companion Shams the Wayfarer centuries before. Fifteen years ago, before Edward had traveled to Drachma Roy had taken Ed on an unforgettable night ride, whispering the ancient erotic verses as they made love under the early summer moon.

That had been in the first heady year of discovering one another. The flames had not died down since those days, and if Roy had believed in a god he would have given thanks. Instead, he offered silent gratitude to the only saint he believed in. _Maes…in the Gateway you told me to stop mourning for you. You told me not to turn my heart into a cemetery. You said I could love—and would love again if I allowed myself to let someone in. Of all the bone-headed ideas you came up with in the years I knew you, that was the smartest thing you ever said to me, old friend. _ His eyes met Edward's. His fiancée was grinning broadly at another steel band, a larger one which bore a Flamel crest. _Remind me to buy you a beer when I see you again, Hughes._ "You made them, son?"

Maes nodded. "Nina did the signet details—but yeah. I made 'em out of Uncle…out of the old armor. Piece of it was made into a reaping sickle. Used some of that for the materials."

Roy nodded slowly. Then he passed the ring to Edward's son. "I'll need you to keep this for me."

"Huh?"

"That's the best man's responsibility, isn't it?" A strong hand clasped the young alchemist's shoulder. "There's nobody else I'd want to stand beside me on my wedding day."

Maes instinctively glanced over at Colonel Hawkeye, Surely she would be the one Roy Mustang would choose as his witness on his wedding day, right? He saw her shake her head imperceptibly, as if to assure him she didn't object. "You will stand with me, won't you, son?"

Maes closed his fingers tightly around the gleaming band. "Sure…._Poppy_." He swallowed hard. "I'll keep it safe."

Nina was stunned to hear her brother call Roy Mustang something other than "Uncle Roy" or "Sir" for the first time in his life. Before she could comment, her father was pressing the larger ring with the Flamel crest into her palm. "You're always telling me over and over that sometimes the best man for the job is a woman, right?" Ed was smiling at her now. "Hang on to this for me…that is if you don't mind standing up with your old man?"

###

He had loudly volunteered to take the night watch, even though he had been traveling with the Elrics and had earned a good night's rest. After all, Havoc reasoned, it wasn't like he could go home. Even if Hawkeye did let him in the icy silence would be more than he could bear. Maybe if she screamed and ranted like a normal woman they might have worked things out. "If she doesn't shoot me, she'll freeze me out. I'm fucked either way."

He was getting a cup of coffee in the pantry when he bumped into a frowning Collins, who was locking the door of the mahogany cellarette after everyone else had retired to their quarters. Davy Collins—another one of Chris Mustang's strays that made good. "Yo, Davy! How's it hangin'?"

The earnest young butler seemed distressed. "Master Maes has made an early night of it, accompanied, I believe, by a full bottle of Dublith Dark rum."

Havoc bit down on his filter tip. "You sure?"

"It is my responsibility to inventory the wine cellar and the drinks cabinet before retiring so that Sebastian can restock it."

" Good way to tell if someone's boozing on the sly, too." Not good news. Maes Elric had no real head for liquor and made the most miserable drunk Havoc had ever had the misfortune to be puked upon by. It didn't happen damned often but when it did nothing good came of it.

"I was going to check on…_him_." There was very little inflection in those words, but Jean Havoc, so unwise and unknowing about his own hear, didn't miss the subtext. That and after years of considering Maes to be a surrogate family member he had always been aware of the deep, unspoken bond of friendship between Edward's son and the boy who had taken a bullet for him so many years ago. Servant…young master…it meant nothing to Maes Elric. The kid followed his heart and his common sense and Jean loved him all the better for it.

"Nah…he's gonna be puking up his guts. I can handle it." He offered a casual salute to the young butler. "

###

"Don't drink alone, kid. It's bad for your reputation."

The tall figure huddled on the rug before the bedroom fireplace didn't stir, but the bottle at his side was only about a third empty. Maes may have gotten a head start but Havoc was reasonably sure he could prevent a bad hangover from becoming a catastrophic one.

Havoc eased down on the rug beside the younger man and tugged gently at the bottle. Maes released it without argument. "Mind if I…?" Maes shrugged. Havoc took a deep pull, but when someone rapped softly at the door he corked it and put it out of sight. "Yeah?"

"It's me."

Maes lifted his head. In the flickering glow from the fireplace Havoc could see the boy's eyes were wet and swollen. "Come!"

Collins slipped inside, locking the door behind him. As Maes watched, the young butler removed his livery jacket and folded it neatly, laying in on an armchair. He knelt down and slipped his arm around Maes' shoulder. "Maes….look at me." The alchemist's head swayed a little as he tried to focus on his friend's face. "You know I can keep a secret." He glanced at Havoc, who nodded in agreement. "Nothing leaves this room. Tell us what happened in Resembool."

Havoc was snoring on the rug. Collins placed the empty rum bottle in the trash, placed a cushion under his soon-to-be-aching head and draped a spare blanket over his supine form.

On the bed, Maes groaned aloud and Collins had just enough time to get a wastebasket to his bedside before his friend retched miserably one last time before falling back onto his pillow.

"I ain't goin' back, Davy. She can't make me go back there." As he carried the mess away he heard a weary voice in the dark. _"Hate her fuckin' guts."_

_ "Bullshit."_ Collins returned to his friend's bedside. He gently swept the messy fringe back from Maes' sweaty forehead. "You never hated a soul in your life, Maes. "

"I can try."

"Worse things happen to better people. Now shut up and go to sleep. We'll sort this mess out in the morning."

One golden eye cracked open. "What…no goodnight kiss?"

"IF you could brush your teeth without poking your own eye out—which I doubt." Collins leaned down and dropped a swift kiss on his friend's mouth, already slack with drowsiness and reeking of alcohol and vomit.

A surprisingly strong hand grabbed the butler by the collar and yanked him down onto the bed. "All right, all right. Shove over. I'll stay a bit."

"_Mrshfgiggnnngrrr….snxxxzzgghhh….snxxzzgghhhhhhhhhh…"_

_ "Love you too."_

TO BE CONTINUED….


	16. Chapter 16

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 16: FIVE MINUTES AFTER MIDNIGHT

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

Roy Mustang and Edward Elric had left the world behind them, a world of recent losses and grief, of politics and gamesmanship. Outside the warm cedar wood doors it was a deadly game. The New Prosperity Era that followed the Promised Day was coming to a close. Amestrians, comfy and secure and clueless, had grown complacent in close to two decades of relative peace and plenty. A new face came to challenge the man who had changed the world. Even if Roy Mustang had sought out the desert sages or the wise men of Xing they would have told him not to push the river, but to care for his country and let events unfold as fate decrees.

Roy slipped out of his uniform and laid the world and its worries aside. The cool cotton of the yukata felt good against his skin. His body was humming with need, and it pleased him that after half a century desire tasted as sweet to him as it had in his cadet days. He had spent the nights of Edward's absence as he had when his lover had flown to the Eastern Kingdoms and Xing, writhing in the dark, impaling himself upon a cold rubber phallus while plunging into the newest 'Gate of Paradise' that had needed replacing year after year. Each year Mr. Spenser had come up with a new invention, a new toy to console the separated lovers, although Edward balked at the pink rubber buttocks that were large enough to be mounted. Roy was not so particular and brought the item out and rode it ferociously until it split and tore. But as often as he might pour himself into a fist or toy, it was always with full knowledge that nothing—_nothing_—could rival the heat of his mate, the taste of his sweat and seed, the fingers that bruised as they clenched desperately, the automail toes that scrapped against his bare buttocks, or the mouth that greedily bit and sucked and licked and kissed and growled out such profane endearments.

It was five minutes before midnight and Edward was home. Edward was home and Edward was _his _and the world could bloody well turn without Roy Mustang tonight….

###

Five minutes after midnight they were closing up the watering holes on the north side of Central. Chris Mustang stepped outside into the street for a smoke and to keep an eye on a slightly tipsy officer whom she had called a cab for. The officer had been taken aback by such forwardness, standing smartly erect and calmly assuring Chris that she was fine and her driving completely unimpaired. "Oh yeah? When was the last time you got hammered?" the old woman shot back, reasonably certain that the honest answer would have been 'never'. "Make an old lady happy. Take the cab. It's on me. Last thing I want to do is have to explain to my boy that I let a senior officer get behind the wheel after five shots and white wine chaser-and listen, doll—your head ain't gonna thank you for mixing wine and scotch."

She paid the cabby double the fare and tip—in part to insure he kept his trap shut, but also to cover any cleaning bill should Colonel Hawkeye vomit all over his back seat. "Get some rest," she ordered the slightly weaving woman as she guided her into the cab. As they drove off, she shook her head and flicked ashes over the thin dusting of fresh snow that was crusting on the curbside. "That Havoc oughta have his head examined," she muttered aloud to no one in particular.

She was about to head back in to count the night's receipts when a bright, splashy poster caught her eye in the window of a pub across the street. It bore the clean cut image of a certain journalist familiar to anyone with a radio in Amestris and the words "SAMUELSON-A Better Man—For A Better Amestris" blazing above his head . Underneath the portrait (which artfully concealed a slightly receding hairline) was the added comment "TIME FOR A CHANGE TO GOVERNMENT BY THE PEOPLE" and in slightly smaller typeface "_paid for by the committee to elect Donal Samuelson President"_. The bartender, sweeping out cigarette butts, stood in the open door, noticed Chris Mustang studying the poster. He had known her for years and felt a little awkward but he didn't feel the need to apologize for his personal politics. He nodded a greeting at the old woman. She cocked her eyebrow at him and flicked her ashes at his shoes.

"May the best man win," she told him with a sly smile that reminded him that she knew where all the bodies were buried among the downtown club owners. The pub owner ducked hurriedly back in and closed the door behind him, locking it tight against the rising chill.

###

Five minutes after midnight, the late-night news program on Radio Capital mentioned the formation of the Amestrian Populist Party, a small but outspoken group of reformists who advocated separation of the military and the government. "At a Populist rally in South City there was a surprising show of support for newly-declared presidential hopeful Donal Samuelson, who will be setting out on the campaign trail over the Solstice holiday to meet with his supporters. When asked if President Mustang shows any concern about the grassroots movement to oppose his military-backed administration, Presidential Spokesman Heymans Breda stated that' the President believes that debate from different candidates is a sign of a healthy democracy' and added that 'if Mr. Samuelson stands as an endorsed political opponent, President Mustang looks forward to meeting with him on the campaign trail."

Frank Archer snapped his radio off and sucked down a mouthful of cold gin. In three days—just three days—he'd seen Samuelson's posters begin to crop up in shop windows all over town. "Bet that just burns Roy's lily-white ass," he chuckled aloud. "Now let's see if you've got the stones to carry through with it, Sammy-boy…."

###

Five minutes after midnight, Gladys Turlough finished her cocktail and glanced at her diamond wristwatch—a lovely item hand crafted in Xenotime. One hand trailed over a sumptuous breast, pausing to tweak a nipple that had, until very recently, had Jean Havoc's mouth glued to it several times a week and in some wonderfully adventurous locations. Doing in the front seat of the Presidential car had been shivery fun—hopefully her Country Boy had located the pink silk panties she had lost under the seat. He could last _forever_—she could suck on that thing and it would get rock hard over and over again. Mmmmm….just _thinking_ about his tongue down there made her so hot. "Five minutes after midnight," she sighed. "Maybe he'll come by after work." Her hand now crept under her satin nightgown. She was already wet for him. She debated a moment before slipping a manicured finger in. "Well…it's not like I'm going to wear out," she sighed, picturing Havoc's head between her thighs, his cute little goatee wet with her juices and his clever tongue sliding in just…_everywhere_. "I'm just revving the engines for him…."

###

Five minutes after midnight Sebastian moved noiselessly down the second floor corridor like a great cat, listening carefully. Colonel Hawkeye was off duty and offsite, leaving it to him to keep the household watch. That was fine with Sebastian. He preferred it that way. Blazing guns and stomping boots were never his style—but then there was a distinct difference between a military guard and a Black Ops assassin. "Sebastian's like a dog fart—silent but deadly," Master Maes had once observed when he was twelve and someone had attempted to shoot his stepfather at the Veteran's Memorial wreath ceremony. Sebastian slipped in and out of he crowd like a phantom and the attacker had no more than drawn his pistol when a garrote of wire, fine as a hair, looped around the man's throat and a very delicate, determined pressure and a soft whisper of warning persuaded the attacker to drop to the ground and surrender without a fight.

Mrs. Hughes had settled in for the night in her accustomed guest room He had arranged for a warmed robe and plush slippers at her bedside and lots of fluffy towels for her morning shower. He made a mental note to ask Chef Ramsay to prepare a fruit plate and black coffee for her breakfast.

A few doors down there was soft conversation in Miss Nina's room. Likely she and Miss Elycia would sit up and talk much of the night—however he had warned Chef Ramsay to be prepared in the event of a midnight raid on the pantry. How both young ladies managed to gorge on sweets and maintain their trim figures was a mystery, to be sure.

He frowned as he passed Master Maes' room, where he had seen Collins slip inside an hour before. He frowned. Friendship was all very well, but once Collins became his apprentice a line needed to be drawn—and redrawn—between Family and Staff. The undue familiarity was unseemly and inappropriate, and he regretted that Master Maes did not seem to understand he was putting his friend's career chances in jeopardy, particularly with the intimate nature of their friendship. He sighed and shook his head. It was, indeed, a good thing that Collins would be shipped off to Mrs. Bradley's estate in less than a fortnight—sooner, if Sebastian could manage it.

As he came to the end of the second floor corridors he paused. Behind the door was the newly redesigned cedar wood bath that the young master and mistress had created as a gift to His Excellency. Of course, Sebastian had insisted on inspecting it carefully for any potential security risks or safety hazards. All in all, it was nicely done. Earlier, Sebastian and Collins had lit the candles in the iron lanterns, heated the water and turned on the small indoor fountain that trickled musically over small pebbles in a large stone basin Miss Nina had arranged. Simple cotton robes called _yukata_ had been laid out for His Excellency and the Professor, along with plenty of clean towels and a lacquered tray bearing an assortment of water-resistant lubricants procured from Spenser's Emporium that might be required during the course of the evening.

Sebastian listened. He nodded in approval at what he heard. "Very good, Your Excellency," he told the door. "Carry on, Sir."

And behind the locked doors, carry on they did….

###

"Not bad for an old guy." Edward grinned at the front of Roy's yukata—or rather at the impertinent and impatient manhood that was tenting out the front to a very impressive degree. "I could hang my robe on that."

"Only if you're in it. _Come here_." Laughing, Ed allowed himself to be yanked into the older man's embrace, running appreciative hands over his lover's chest. Roy caught him by the hips and pulled Ed closer, his mouth finding that sensitive spot right below Ed's ear. "Don't care if I'm a hundred. You ever find a day when you can't get me hard without laying a hand on me, you'd better have Knox toe-tag me and stash me in a body bag."

Roy's fingers tugged carefully at the elastic that bound the younger man's lengthy ponytail up and out of his way. He carded the lengthy mass carefully with his fingers, admiring the way it spilled over the crimson yukata, catching the low flickering light of a dozen candles in low iron lanterns. His cock twitched in appreciation. This was something dangerously erotic about his lover that he could never quite fathom, especially since Ed could effortlessly flip a mental switch and become utterly disinterested in sex or romance when focusing on a problem or working on a project. There was nothing remotely feminine about Edward Elric, for all his sharp, elegant features and remarkable topaz eyes. No, Ed had always been and would always be a tough little bastard, and while any woman would envy a waist-length mane like Ed's, it did not feminize him in the slightest. Rather, it gave him a wildness that Roy found intensely erotic, like some splendid animal that could never quite be captured or tamed. The fact that Ed was so aggressive in bed only added to the illusion, as did the feral, wolf-like eyes he had inherited from his Xerxian father.

A splendid animal…_my splendid animal…._Roy bit down on the smooth neck and was gratified by the low, throaty assent, even more by the hardness that chaffed against his own. "Come on. Let's get _wet_."

Five minutes after midnight Roy shrugged off the upper half of his deep blue robe as they stood on the edge of the sunken wooden tub. The water was roughly neck deep and although It had steps and a hand rail but when seated on the floor it was easier to simply swing ones feed around, step down onto the bench seat and ease into the steamy water. Ed admired the design, especially the features that were unique to this bath compared to the ones he'd soaked in while visiting Nihon. There were clever, adjustable foot and leg rests of cedar and movable rods of bamboo that could be positioned across the bath so that Ed could support his leg and even float on his back without the weight of his leg dragging him down. "I don't know whether my son is a genius or a pervert," he exclaimed, " but this is brilliant." He tested the stability of the bamboo rods and found them stable and safe. "What exactly does he think we're gonna _do_ in this thing?"

"Nothing his uncle hasn't done somewhere else—and with more people."

"Yeah, I don't know where this damn deviant streak comes from ."

"Says the man," Roy teased, "who keeps—what did that palace maid in Aerugo call them—'feeelthy peeectures!'—in his travel kit and gets rock hard whenever someone at dinner says 'pass the butter'. Am I right?"

The memory of having a housekeeper at the royal palace discover Ed's Owner's Manual when he had mistakenly left it unlocked in the sheets of the guest room was embarrassing even now and Ed's cheeks burned. "Asshole. You have to keep bringing that up, don't you?"

A scarred hand yanked off the sash of Ed's robe. "I like 'bringing things up'. Don't you?" His own yukata half open, he began lightly rubbing his bare chest against Edward's, so their hardened nipples lightly grazed against each other. Roy's chest had always been so sensitive. A flicker of tongue tip or fingers could make his ivory skin flush with arousal but it was this brushing of skin against skin that made him crazy. Ed leaned into the caress and his hand snaked down between them so that the hard ridge of his sex intruded inside Roy's robe to greet the alchemist's shaft. "Mmmmm….entering without knocking? That's rude, Ed."

White teeth closed on a pale shoulder. "You couldn't keep me out if you tried." He sucked in his breath sharply as Roy's fist closed over them both and squeezed hard.

"Already wet and we're not even under water…mmmm…I've seen candles that didn't drip as much as you do." A slicked finger pressed into his slit and Ed's knees, flesh and metal, began to buckle.

"Quit bitching. You love it. Now, are we gonna fuck or not?" Ed growled. "If the kids hadn't been with us I'd have been all over you in the car going home. You'd have had to keep up the pose, acting all cool and presidential and military while you were creaming your shorts in the back seat with my finger up your ass." His chuckle was low and evil and made the hair stand up on the back of Roy's neck. "That would be entertaining as hell, making you squirm and you not being able to do a damn thing about it. Maybe I'll hide under your desk and suck you off during a cabinet meeting….mmmmm….sound like fun?"

"You keep taking like that," Roy warned as they slid into the water, " and you won't be able to sit down for a week." Sodden robes were peeled off and flung aside and Roy positioned himself on a slightly inclined bench seat under the water. His feet told him the tub had a slope which would be safer with Ed using it. Grabbing one of the bamboo poles from the far side of the tub Roy carefully maneuvered it into a set of wooden slots built into the tub sides, silently thanking Maes for his perverse inventiveness. The pole now stretched across the sides of the tub but about waist deep, perfect for what Roy had in mind.

Seated on the bench, Roy persuaded Ed to stretch out on his chest, both heels hooked over the bamboo pole, legs spread. "Now…that's it…relax…close your eyes and just let go. I've got you. I won't let you sink." Ed looked dubious but the experiment worked. Roy's body supported his upper back and shoulders and it was the first time he'd been essentially weightless in water while wearing automail. Beneath him, Roy was whispering into his ear, reminding him that he was safe from drowning, that it was all right to let the tension flow out of his muscles. Roy adjusted Ed's position and then his hands began to softly stroke the taut, rippled abs, thumbs sweeping up now and again to tease the rosy nipples_. "Breathe."_ Ed needed to be reminded because Roy was taking his breath away and sweet sparks were coursing through him like some erotic alchemy.

The callused hands coursed their way down…down…down….toying now with the fine blond curls that moved with the water's wake, tracing the crease where his thighs joined and then down to cradle the balls that were tight in their sac in spite of the warmth of the water. Roy rubbed them, rolled them artfully between his fingers as his tongue traced the inner shell of his lover's ear. "Breathe deeper…yes…go into it…feels different, doesn't it. Feels deep…feels good?"

"Y-yeah…yeah…wow…" The urge to tense up his body and strain towards release was building but each time he shuddered and jerked Roy softly reminded him to breathe deeper. "What…what…_is_…this? What—is this some kind of alchemy?"

"Mmmmm….not exactly. The Rishi sages of Ishbal may have gotten it from Xerxes….it's called _maithuna_, the Way of the Deep River. The ancients believed it was the most intense orgasm at all, but you have to relax completely and not tense up. Just keep breathing…focus on nothing but the sound of my voice and how good this feels…"

When the hands twined around his cock Ed's eyes began to roll back in his head but he kept breathing deeply as wave after wave of pleasure seemed to ripple through his nerve endings. He was so deeply focused he never even felt Roy slip out from under him, gently opening Ed's arms so that he could float easily. Moving around he ducked underwater, coming up between the spread thighs and one hand moved down to open him wide enough for the entry of a tongue that kept pace with the other hand that stroked his member. There was a soft, stuttering sound of pleasure as the yielded to the pleasures of being sucked at and licked, his balls being held inside a silken mouth, a tongue tip rooting into his slit to catch the salty drops that were milky on his belly and in the water. "_Ah! Ahhhhhh….yessssssss"_

Ed was close and it was too risky to hope that he could maintain his buoyancy in the throes of ecstasy. Roy ducked under, slipped under Edward's back and positioned his man just so. He had to stretch and arch and it wasn't altogether comfortable for Roy but he managed to ease just the crown of his cock inside Edward's body. Ed's eyes began to roll beneath his closed lids and his lips began to tremble. "I've got you safe." Roy's voice was low and hypnotic. "I'm rooted inside you." He flexed his muscles and the thick cockhead twitched inside. "Keep breathing…deeper and deeper…there is no way you'll sink under…I've got you safe…I'm in you now….feel me…you're anchored to me…we're joined, body to body….me to you. I'll never let you fall…_trust me_…"

When the sensation hit him, full force, the pulsing in his groin and bursting of his cock was almost irrelevant. He could fee it in his goddamn _fingertips_…deep in his chest where his heart hammered wildly, deep in his brain which sparked and made his vision go white. It felt like an alchemical reaction was washing over his skin and it tingled and burned and it felt like everything from his toes to his soul was fountaining out of his cock and he shook all over, bound only by the cockhead he clenched from inside and the strong arm and chest that bore him up.

He was hypersensitive, inside and out. "What..the…_fuck…_what did you…what did you _do_…to me?"

Roy waited until Edward could catch his breath. "I gave you my _soul_." With one shove of his foot he pushed away the pole that had supported Ed's legs and the weight of the automail pulled the younger man up into a half-sitting position. The shift of weight caused the hard knob just inside his opening to strike deep, hitting his sweet spot. Ed was surprised when he felt a small spurt of fluid from his tip. "I didn't think there was a drop left inside me," he panted.

"I'm not done with you," Roy told him. "_Move. _Grab the edge and put your knee up on the bench." Roy moved behind him, still deeply rooted. "I gave you my soul." There was a sharp bite on the back of his neck. "Now you get my _cock_. I'm going to _fuck you like an animal._" Strong fingers dug into his chest as the older man's body moulded itself to Edward, pulling him upright, his hips at exactly the right angle for a merciless attack. Roy placed one foot on the bench beside Ed's and the leverage was just…damn…_perfection_.

It was too soon for Ed to come again, his cock too sensitive, but it meant he could revel in the pleasures of being filled deep and taken hard. "I'm high and hard in you, as deep as I can reach you….I'm going to fill you up. I'm going to ride that tight hole so goddamn hard…squeeze it…squeeze it hard…."

Ed's head fell back and he hissed with pleasure. He was sure after that all-consuming body orgasm that even Roy couldn't take him any higher but this…this was fucking _insane._ Ed, who panicked and became resentful and defensive if anyone tried to dominate or control him, was surrendering…was agreeing to be owned. In some tiny corner of his mind that was still lucid he suddenly understood why Roy took such thorough enjoyment in Edward pounding into him without mercy, leaving Roy sore and shaking and howling in delight. _I'm not in control…I'm not in control…_ He was surprised that the realization didn't make him wary or make him change the game, to turn the tables and get his own back. Because for the first time that he was aware of it Edward Elric was not calling the shots on at least some level….and it was okay. He was not afraid because his man…his _mate_…this wild beast that was snarling curses in his ear and mounting him like an animal, rutting with him…this was his equal. There was a fury and danger in fucking like this…in _loving_ like this…and Ed gloried in it. He slammed back against that rock hard chest and the hard iron inside him churned deeper, the thick, velvety head rubbing that perfect spot and now the heat was back, rushing into his cock and he fisted it savagely as Roy growled his encouragement, one hand slipping under Ed's balls.

"Yeah….fuck, yessss….I knew you had more for me…don't hold it back, Ed…I wanna see you come for me…" Roy was panting hard and grinding between his cheeks so deep Ed could feel the tangle of wet black curls rubbing against him and the slow slap of tight balls under the water. It stretched and it burned and he gloried in it. One hand squeezed and pulled at his balls while the other dug into his shoulder. "Are you ready…you want it all, Edward?" The words were snarled out and any sane man who heard such a voice in his bed would have run for his life.

Edward had left his sanity behind along with his clothes and his shame and his inhibitions. "Lemme have it, fucker."

Roy jackknifed, cursing. It felt like his heart burst along with his cock as every hot, thick pulse spurted inside his lover's core and Ed bore down hard, clenching each inch, the ridged crown against his prostate triggering his own eruption. Roy caught Ed's offering in his palm and rubbed it over his own chest, licking his fingers before his balance gave way and the two of them sank bonelessly onto the bench, gasping for breath.

It was quite a while before they could move, either of them. If the water had been as hot as a Nihonese bath they might have been in danger. Perhaps Maes or maybe Alphonse had thought of that. The water was not warm enough to overwhelm them, thankfully, and once Roy's member had slipped out of the much loved and much ravaged haven that had clenched it the two men slowly dragged themselves up the wooden steps and held each other up on the edge of the bath, grinning wearily.

"Now I know why they call it a rectum," Ed winced. "You fuckin' _wrecked_ it."

"Mission accomplished," Roy purred back. "Feel free to get even…only not tonight. I came so hard I think my brain is bleeding."

"I couldn't hoist my meat if you tied my dick to a derrick." He punched Roy playfully on the shoulder. "I coulda drowned at one point, shithead."

Roy smirked back at him, smug and spent and happier than he'd felt in weeks. "The only time I would let you go down, Ed, is between my legs." He jerked his head towards the Nihonese futon bedroll on the other side of the room—again, proof that Maes had put way too much thought into this room. "Can you drag yourself over there or do I have to carry you?"

"Bite me."

"Check the marks on your back in the morning."

Long after the candles guttered out Roy awoke in the darkness. He could still hear the calming whisper of water over bamboo and stone, along with the soft snoring of the man draped across his chest. They couldn't stay in here forever. He'd heard about the signs appearing in the cities. He had no doubt things were about to get ugly, extremely ugly. "All I wanted to do was take care of my country. Maybe I can't even do that anymore." His own voice merged with the sound of water and breathing and gentle snoring. "I don't know how to do anything else." It was like Edward surrendering his alchemic powers for his brother's sake. If the tide of popularity swayed the people of Amestris to rally around Samuelson, he'd have to hand over the reins to a man whose ambition was undoubtedly greater than his willingness to sacrifice.

"_If_ I lose…"

It would hurt. And he was grateful for the man who snored and drooled on his chest, because only Edward-who had lost so much on the Promised Day—could teach him how to find something more to live for in the second half of his life…..

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	17. Chapter 17

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 17: SEASONS BEATINGS

By The Binary Alchemist 2012

_Jean Havoc grimaced as he yanked up his pants. "Be thankful I didn't have to treat you for gunshot wounds," was all Dr. Knox had to say, laying the syringe aside. "Now wrap it up," he jerked his thumb towards Havoc's crotch, "and stay out of trouble."_

That had been a month ago. His ass and his dick had stopped hurting. Jean was not quite as sure about the rest of his anatomy, his heart in particular.

Shoot it off? That would have hurt a lot less than coming home to a closet full of empty hangers and plenty of vacant space in their his n' hers gun cabinet. Not to mention that she had not said one word to him outside of the call of duty since he got back from Resembool. Hell, even Black Hayate IV had taken to growling at him, and from the smell of it had taken a whiz on his briefcase. "I feel lower than tits on a chicken," he confessed to his superior just before Solstice.

Mustang didn't even glance up from his paperwork. "_Really._"

"I mean, if I could just get her to _listen_ to me."

"Huh. Ever listen to _her_?"

"Funny. That's what Ruby says."

The President finally looked up at him. "Use your head, Havoc," Mustang growled, "and I don't mean the one inside your shorts. You lied to her. You screwed around. And now you're complaining she won't talk to you? Huh! You got off lucky. "

"Well…yeah…." Havoc looked desperate. "But still, she—"

"Oh…so it's the Colonel's fault?" He threw down his pen in disgust. "That's right…I forgot. She _made_ you sleep with that actress. Repeatedly. You were helpless." He stood up and ruffled his hair in irritation. "Wrong, Havoc. _Wrong._ You walked into this mess with both eyes wide open. You're not a fool. You knew what you were doing. Either fix it or live with the consequences."

"Haven't you ever cheated on Ed?" Havoc blurted out, instantly regretting it.

A corner of Roy's mouth lifted up. "I'm not blind. Neither is Ed. And if I should notice someone I ask myself if a meaningless tryst when my husband is away worth the loss of our relationship? The answer is always 'no'."

"You think Ed wouldn't forgive you if you slipped?"

Mustang adjusted his cap. "I'd never forgive _myself_."

###

There was nothing like having one's sling back pumps full of dirty slush to put a lady in a foul mood. Well, foul-er mood, made even nastier by the appearance of "Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf" on the best-sellers list all over Amestris. The fat royalties check that had just been deposited in her bank account did not take the sting out of Kelley Winchell's humiliation. She still had no idea how in the hell that loathsome first book of hers ever crawled out of the back filing cabinets at, Dickon and Howe and Sons but somehow Mustang must have had something to do with it. And revenge, she vowed, might be served cold but by damn it would be a sumptuous feast and she hoped the President would choke on it.

He was waiting for her at Barnes and Walden, waving her over to the coffee bar with a genial smile. She gritted her teeth behind her smile. _Bastard._ Dealing with Frank Archer made her skin crawl. He might wear finely tailored suits and have a 500 cenz polish on his shoes, he was still a parasite. She, at least, had scruples, goddamn it. Archer, she believed, would blow a chimera if he thought it would give him information—and that was the point, wasn't it?

_Archer knows about chimeras_. _He knows what I know about Mustang, about the eclipse and the battle in Central that day. _ And, as they used to say in the old days, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'—at least for the moment.

She allowed him to bring her a cup of coffee—black, two pink packets of Skinny N' Sweet—and she sat a safe distance so his manly cologne didn't overwhelm her. "You said this was urgent?"

"I said it's essential." That smile made her shudder in all the wrong ways. She trusted Frank Archer about as far as she could comfortably fling a piano. "Some galleys for my upcoming book. You might find them entertaining."

A leather portfolio was shoved across the table. "Let me guess," Winchell simpered. "Another one of your _dreadfully_ entertaining picture books? Something like "Thrones Of The Sun King: Historic Bathrooms of Aerugo'? Or—oh, this is a good one—'I Love Ewe: Merry Lives Of The Eastern Sheep Herders'. My, my, that will be good for simply _minutes_ of sparkling conversation the next time they interview you on _Cover To Cover_. " She flipped the folio open. "Really, Frank, I don't know how you can face yourself in the mirror without a shot of gin after publishing such dreary—_FUCKING ISHBALLA ON ICE SKATES!"_

She flung the folio from her as if it had bitten her. Archer calmly handed it back. She stared at him in horror. "This…sweet Leto…_where_ did you get those pictures?"

"Holiday snaps from a friend with mutual interests."

"I think I may be ill." Under the dusting of powder and rouge Kelley Winchell had paled noticeably.

"Get off your high-horse, Kel." Archer's smile was razor thin and nearly as dangerous. "You're so proud of your tawdry little sex scandals and catching the rich and powerful in the middle of their bedroom follies. The Johnny Lunchbuckets and Jane Dishpans of Amestris just love the scandals and they spend a packet on your books—mainly because they're written in words with less than three syllables. Throwing popcorn to zoo animals. That's you're career. Now," he lifted a finger to quell her outraged snarl, "do you want to keep hiding under beds all your life? Or," he pressed the folio back into her hands," Do you want to help us change the country? Maybe you'd rather write children's books?"

Kelley Winchell didn't answer. She opened the folio again, a lace-trimmed handkerchief pressed firmly to her mouth, her eyes darting away from the photographs now and again. Abruptly she rose and dashed into the ladies room where she remained for quite a long time.

When she returned she reeked of breath mints and was slightly sweaty. She offered a cold, clammy hand out to Frank Archer, who shook it firmly. _"Let's get started."_

_###_

_ "Happy Solstice!"_

Mrs. Bradley looked up into that open, kindly face and was reminded yet again how much young Maes favored his father, although the younger Elric was already considerably taller and more broad-shouldered and tended to wear his blond mane in a flyaway tumble that gave him a leonine look that suited his outgoing nature. The young man carried an enormous armload of flowers and a blue and gold bakery box that smelled wonderfully of ginger and spices. A glance at the mantle clock made the old woman smile; visitors were inevitable from 1:00 to 2:00pm, when Collins was taking the daily hour of personal time that Mrs. Bradley insisted on. Nearly every afternoon someone came to sit with Collins on his lunch hour—Madame Christmas, Miss Nina, Mr. Sebastian came calling, but more often it was young Maes or Elycia Hughes, who tended blushed and colored prettily when she called for Collins, glancing up at the good-looking young butler with shining eyes. She also noted that when Maes Elric stopped by, Collins seemed especially glad to see him, and the two would disappear into the conservatory, returning in unusually good spirits.

The visitors were always solicitous towards her health and nearly always brought some treat or gift for Selim. Miss Nina would stop at the library to drop off the picture books and primers that Selim loved to read to his mother, while Ms. Hughes' generosity arrived as cunningly decorated cookies and tea cakes from her bakery. Master Maes made toys and puzzles in his workshop that were simple enough for her son's fragile mind and gave Selim hours of enjoyment. The fact that her boy was older than both of the Elric children was politely ignored. Selim was treated with great kindness by Collins' friends and Mrs. Bradley was grateful indeed.

Selim eagerly tore open his surprise, his dark eyes growing wide when he saw the ginger house, the tin of candies and the parchment tubes filled with colored frosting with little metal tips to pipe out different designs. "See, Selim? You can decorate your ginger house any way you like and you and your mom can eat it on New Year's. Sound like fun to you?"

Selim was so excited he nearly forgot to say thank you. Mrs. Bradley fretted over the want of manners but Maes laughed and waved it off before the maid escorted him to the conservatory, a third parcel tucked under his arm.

"Hey!

Deep blue eyes glanced up from the daily paper. "You didn't go to Resembool?"

"Not without a court order. I told her I had guests coming to Central for Solstice." A parcel was thrust into Davy's hands. "Happy Solstice, and let's leave my mother out of this, or you will ruin a perfectly splendid erection I've been saving for you."

"What? I thought Petrovna Illyich Lobachevsky wasn't coming up for the holidays." It was no secret that the grand master of Stoltovgrad University had been eyeing Maes Elric as fine son-in-law material for years, and Edward certainly had no objections. Petrovna was smart, level-headed, pleasantly cynical and her research in water alchemy set the standard in the field. Maes had known Peta much of his life and enjoyed her company when visiting in Drachma but had no plans to settle down with her or any other man or woman he was seeing.

"I told Mom she was. It was an easy out. Peta and I exchanged Solstice cards, but that's it. I told her I would use her as an excuse not to be forced back to the sticks. She found it amusing and said she'd used me as an excuse to her father not to be dragged down to the dacha for Winter Carnival. Turn and turn about, equivalent exchange and all that shit."

Maes seemed oblivious to the relieved look on Davy Collins' face. "Well…I'm glad you've come."

"And I'll be glad when I've come too…once we get someplace secluded. Now hurry up and open it before I start bleeding from my ears, you idiot!"

"What in the…wow…did you make this yourself?" It was his very own radio, including a two-way broadcasting mode and small enough to move about the house. The design was streamlined and elegant, with a real leather bound case and tasteful brass trim. He turned the power knob and it hummed briefly before the announcer of Radio Capital struck the one o'clock chimes just before the news segment following _Midday Amestris_. The tone was rich and clear and Davy Collins was clearly delighted. "You've outdone yourself. It's wonderful."

"And, " Maes added with a wink, "the music provides cover for other sounds that are no business of anyone else." He turned the dial to the Amestris Broadcasting Company's _Lunch Time Requests_, and as Al Parsons and His West City Wanderers struck up a lively rendition of "One O'clock Jump" Maes led his best friend behind the potted plants and the pair spent the better part of the lunch hour whetting one another's appetites, making haste to make certain that Collins was back in his livery and neat as a pin before assuming his duties for the remainder of the day.

Maes could hear the sobbing down the corridor as Collins escorted his guest to the front door. It was an unnerving sound—the sound of a grown man choking out his tears as if his whole world had come crashing down around his head. "What the _f_—is that _Selim?"_

Collins, on duty once more, nodded slightly. "Indeed. Master Selim has…_moments_. If you will excuse me, I'll have the maid show you to-_Maes, wait_!"

"I broke it…I_ broke it._ _I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry_." Even the toughest of hearts would have felt a twinge of compassion for the dark haired man crumpled miserably on the kitchen floor, weeping over his broken ginger house. Mrs. Bradley was kneeling on the floor, half hugging her son, assuring him that Maes wouldn't be mad, and that she would take him to Il Gattina's this very afternoon and buy him a brand new ginger house and some Kooky Kat cakes too.

Already tender-hearted by nature, Maes felt awful. Before Collins could stop him, the young alchemist crouched down beside Selim and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. "Hey, buddy! It's okay…I'm not mad at all…it was just an accident and I can fix it for you in a jiffy." Snatching up a tube of icing, Maes squeezed a blob on his finger and quickly smeared an array in the middle of the mess. "Now watch this!"

Smiling and confident, Maes clapped his hands. A warm, golden light shimmered between his fingers as his hands touched the rim of the array.

Selim _shrieked_.

When the flash and light subsided, the ginger house was whole but Selim Bradley was not.

Collins was dragging Maes down the hall by the collar and shoving him out the front door as an ear-splitting keen tore through the air, followed by a low, strangled cry that grew louder and shriller with each gasp of breath: "_DARK!DARK!DARK!DARK!DARK!DARKDARKDARKDARKDARK!"_

"Get out of here, Maes!" Davy Collins snapped at his lover.

"But," Maes was struggling to his feet, trying to press past his best friend and back into the house. "What is it? All I did was-"

"You don't understand…you don't understand _anything_! GET OUT OF HERE!" Collins shoved Maes in the chest, and the younger man sprawled painfully on his back on the steps as the front door slammed and locked.

###

There was a bright flash, and the front door to President Mustang's mansion was kicked to splinters. That in itself was an impressive feat. Even more impressive was the fact that the palace guards didn't lift a finger to defend the perimeter. They didn't dare.

A braded head poked through the wreckage. _"Maes? Nina? Nana's home!" _

At the _slap-slap-slap_ of bathroom slippers on the inlaid parquet wooden floors the downstairs maids dove into the wine cellar for safety. The silverman and the stable boy were right behind them, followed by Chef Ramsay. "Bloody hell, we're _doomed_," he muttered, a sauce pan over his head in lieu of a helmet. "She'll feckin' _KILL_ us all!"

Ed's head popped over the railing. _"Shit!"_

Roy was right behind him. "So much for the Season of Peace."

Ed ducked behind Roy. "She didn't knock. Not a good sign."

"Have you done anything lately to make her angry?"

Ed did a swift mental inventory. He sighed with relief. "Not since Granny's funeral. Not that I know of."

Roy stepped neatly aside, leaving Ed exposed. "Then you don't have any thing to worry about, except repairing the front door. After all," he smirked, "she's _your_ teacher."

Manning up to the situation, Ed straightened up, drew a deep breath land leaned over the banister. "I'm up here, Teacher. We didn't know you were coming for Solstice."

Izumi stepped into the foyer and beamed up at him. "Edward! Happy Solstice!" She waived a cheery greeting to the President. "Roy! How are you?"

"Always good to see you, " Roy answered drolly. "If we'd known you were on the way we'd have left the door open. Hope you didn't bruise anything kicking it down, did you?"

Izumi smiled broadly, wiggling her toes. "I'm just fine, Roy!" she called back. "Where's Nina?"

"She's out with Ruby," Ed told his sensei. "There's a big package from Winry and Pitt they're picking up and then they were getting a late lunch with Rebecca and Aunt Chris since they're working over Solstice."

Izumi nodded. Her smile evaporated. "Good. Now…_where… is… The Boy?"_

Ed paled. Roy's strong hand closed over his shoulder. "You're not the one in trouble," his lover whispered, "_this_ time."

They didn't have time to wait. A pale and badly shaken Maes stumbled though the front door ten minutes later. He was so disturbed and upset over the incident with Selim Bradley that he didn't even notice that his foster grandmother was lying in wait for him behind the potted plans in the foyer. He put one foot on the bottom step before she caught him by the collar, already half torn by his best friend. "_Maes…Urey…Elric…"_ Every syllable was double dipped in implied threats of bodily injury.

Roy glanced at Ed. "Should we save him?"

"If we do, who's gonna save _us_?" Ed drew back. "As his grandmother she'd never lay a hand on him. As his sensei…well, all bets are _off_." The memories of the afternoon Izumi found out that the Elric boys had attempted human transmutation made Ed flinch. "As his teacher, she has the right to correct him. He gave her that right when he formally became her apprentice years ago."

Roy shook his head. Master Hawkeye was more inclined to discipline students with his lacerating tongue, hard labor and reduced rations. He'd never actually raised a hand to Roy—mainly because Roy made damn sure the crazy old man had never been given cause to do so. "We stay out of it, I take it?"

"Uhhh….yeah. Guess so."

Izumi glared over at Roy and Edward. "If you'll _excuse_ us, my idiot pupil and I are going to have a talk." She gave a tremendous yank and began to drag her young pupil backwards down the steps outside, bumping on his backside down every step. "A long..._BADUMP!_…hard…_BADUMP!…_talk_…BADUMP!_ about…_BADUMP!_…good…_BADUMP!_.."

"OWWW!SHIT! NANA!-I mean, SENSEI! "

"—MANNERS!"

Ed and Roy stepped cautiously around the splintered remains of their front door and watched as Izumi Curtis continued to bodily drag their son across the lawn towards the old potting shed, his boot heels leaving deep marks in the thin blanket of snow that had fallen that afternoon.

Roy shook his head and draped his arm over his lover's shoulder. "Like father like son…"

###

She had reached the stage that Havoc—damn the man!—used to refer to as 'butt-whupped'. It irritated her that she was this fatigued. It irritated her even more that Havoc wouldn't leave her the hell alone. She'd packed up, walked out and never looked back. He was simply Major Havoc now, nothing more than her subordinate—in more ways than one, to her thinking.

The bakery section of the recently expanded Il Gattina was packed this afternoon. Solstice cakes, mince pies, fancy cookies and box after box of hand-dipped chocolates. Riza took refuge in a quiet corner of the café with a hot cup of ginger spice tea. She had waved away the waitress who offered her a slice of rich layer cake or the 'mile high meringue' that was the tea-time special. Elycia had stopped by Riza's table and brought her a cinnamon scone, hot from the oven and sat down to join her favorite 'Aunt Ree' for a few moments. "You sure you're feeling all right?" Elycia asked gently, not wanting to pry but concerned that Riza seemed pale and tired.

"Just fine, thank you. I'm not really hungry, but—"

"I'll just wrap it up and you can have it for breakfast—it's on the house," Elycia told her. "And I've fixed you up a basket to take home for your Solstice breakfast. I know you and J—ah…I know you love my coffee cake ring."

_You and Jean….You and Jean…_How long before mutual friends stopped binding their names together? "That's so kind of you. Thank you." Her cognac eyes fell to the tabletop. "I must be coming down with a cold. I'm off duty for the next 48 hours so I'll get some rest and turn in early."

Mercifully, Elycia had left her to tend to her other customers and she could focus on the afternoon edition of _The Central Times_. There was a blurb about Donal Samuelson accusing Roy Mustang of being soft on national security and a 'return to traditional values' being a cornerstone of the Samuelson platform. Annoyed, she flipped the page and was further irritated by an interview with Kelley Winchell about the release of her book about Roy Mustang, _Fire and Vice_. _"It actually proved fortuitous that the release was delayed due, I am certain, to the mismanagement of my former publishers. I have signed a new contract with—" _ Riza didn't bother to read another word. She scanned the movie listing; perhaps she'd take in a show tomorrow, since she and…

"Yoo-hoo!"

That _voice_. Baby soft. A voice like pink candy floss coming from pinkly rouged lips. A voice Riza Hawkeye never wanted to hear again if she could help it. She glanced over the edge of her paper and found herself staring into a wide pair of baby-blue eyes fringed with thickly mascara'ed lashes. "Don't be mad," the vision cooed. "Jean and I –we both got duped by that Carlotta. We didn't know she had the…_you know_. "

Hawkeye stared at the Ice Cream Blonde. "Carlotta?"

"Yeah…she came over to see me when Jean was checking in and had this bottle of the _best_ champagne….and…you know how it gets sometimes, right?"

Riza Hawkeye gave the starlet a frosty glance. "No. I don't."

The Ice Cream Blonde leaned in and whispered, "She took _advantage_ of us. Me and Jean, y'know."

"She _didn't_."

"I _swear_ on my life. Cross my heart and hope to _die_."

"We're not that lucky." Neatly folding the paper and laying it to one side, Riza motioned for the waitress. "Check please?"

"You're not _mad_, are you?" Gladys Turlough seemed genuinely concerned. "I mean, Jean's all down in the dumps and cryin' in his beer because you won't come home."

"That is not my concern."

"Oh, but he's a grand fellow, that country boy. Just grand."

"Fine. You're welcome to him."

The platinum blonde's pretty forehead began to pucker in consternation. "You're breaking his heart—"

"He's not my concern. You and…_Carlotta_…are welcome to him. Have fun." Turning smartly, Hawkeye shook off her unwanted companion and marched up to the café register/ "One cup of tea." She handed over a twenty cenz coin, and when the girl behind the counter rang her up Riza waved away the change. She just wanted to get the hell out of Il Gattina and as far away from this perfumed hussy as she could.

Gladys Turlough wasn't through. "Listen to me! You are not walking away from this. Jean is my friend and you've hurt him. I want you to talk to him." Manicured fingers curled around Riza's wrist and tugged.

"Take your hand off me," Hawkeye warned.

"No! That uniform don't scare _me_, Miss High And Mighty Hawkeye! What are you going to do—_shoot me?"_

"You're not worth the bullets."

Nearly as quickly as Riza Hawkeye would have drawn and fired in the heat of battle, a Mile High Meringue Pie™, golden brown and light as a cloud on top, sinfully creamy in the middle and made with the finest dark rum and imported chocolate, vanished from the glass top counter and smashed into Gladys Turlough's face with a soul-satisfying _SPLATTT!_

A 100 cenz note was slapped down beside the register. "Sorry about the mess."

As she marched out into the cold a flailing fury with meringue in her hair screamed after her. _"YOU BITCH!"_

Riza Hawkeye paused at the door. "That's _Colonel Bitch_ to you, Miss Turlough. _Happy Solstice."_

….TO BE CONTINUED….


	18. Chapter 18

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 18: "AT THE CLOSING OF THE YEAR"

By The Binary Alchemist, 2012

If I cannot bring you comfort, then at least I bring you hope

_For nothing is more precious than the time we have—and so_

_We all must learn from our misfortunes_

_Count the blessings that are real_

_Let the bells ring out for Solstice at the closing of the year_

_Let the bells ring out for Solstice…at the closing of the year…*_

_"Good evening, Central! I don't know if you've looked out the window this morning but it's a beautiful sight, isn't it, Eleanor? Just look at that snow! It's going to be a wonderful Solstice for the children of Central, isn't it?"_

_ "It certainly is, Frank! And everyone here at Radio Capital wishes you all a safe and happy Solstice, from our family to yours. And now, the headlines at the top of the hour:_

_ "Former First Lady Anna Bradley was hospitalized late yesterday afternoon with what has been reported to be chest pains and exhaustion. Surgeon General Owen Knox has stated that Mrs. Bradley is in good condition and resting comfortably, adding that if her condition continues to improve she will be released after a few days of observation…"_

###

Roy jerked his head in the direction of the commotion in the old potting shed in the back garden. Sounded like wood splintering, punctuated with occasional shouts from Izumi and yelps of pain from her grandson. Ed was getting that wild-hair-impulse look n his eyes and was winding a warm scarf around his neck and going for his jacket. Intervention—especially if Izumi was pounding some common sense into a stubborn Elric male of any generation-was risky business. "He won't thank you."

Ed hesitated. Hell, if he'd been getting the crap knocked out of him by Teacher, would he have thanked Hohenheim for barging in and trying to stop her? If he was honest with himself, he'd have admitted it would have been mortifying and he'd have shouted for the old bastard to get the hell out and taken his licks like a man—that is, if he didn't take a couple of swings at Hohenheim himself.

Parenthood, however, had nothing to do with logic.

Ed shrugged on his jacket. "He's my kid, Roy."

"He's my son, too."

Something in the tone of those words went straight to Ed's heart. He grinned a little. "Yeah. So you get to clean up what's left of me after _both_ of them kick my ass, okay?"

###

_ "Several hundred peaceful protestors have gathered on the steps of Parliament this morning in support of the 'Government Of The People' movement that is gaining in popularity in the past month. Presidential hopeful Donal Samuelson stated this morning that this is an optimistic sign that the people of Amestris are sending a strong message to the Mustang administration that the country is ready to break ties with its past as a military state and are looking to the civilian sector for new leadership._

_ "And in entertainment news, well-known celebrity biographer and children's author Kelley Winchell has signed a lucrative book deal with Odyssey Press, ending her longtime affiliation with Dickon and Howe and Sons. Kelley denies that this was in response to the release of her children's book , "Buckety Buckety the Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles the Wolf" from a manuscript she had submitted in her teens. Dickon and Howe retain all rights to Miss Kelley's previous best-sellers, as well as a trio of previously unreleased volumes in the "Buckety Buckety" series. The release of her most recent work of nonfiction, 'Fire and Vice', a biography of President Roy Mustang, has been postponed indefinitely due to the settlement with Dickon and Howe and Sons._

_ "In sports, the Central Green Sox will begin spring training early this-"_

Nina Elric's elegantly coiffed head turned towards the radio behind the bar in Chris Mustang's restaurant, her attention riveted by the news broadcast. In a rare display of ebullient good spirits, Nina jumped off her bar stool with a whoop of joy, hugged Rebecca and Ruby, kissed Madame Christmas on the cheek and just stopped herself short of ordering a round of drinks for the house—which, in Mustang's establishment, would have blown her teacher's bonus for the next two Solstices. "We did it!" she shouted triumphantly. "We did it! We-"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Rebecca and Ruby were staring at her. So was Madame Christmas, whose cat-green eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"_Ooops."_ Nina sat down abruptly, smoothing her floor-length skirts and straightening her small rimless spectacles. "Never mind. Carry on."

"_Carry on_?" Chris Mustang growled. "What have you been up to, kid?"

Ruby took a certain mildly spiteful pleasure at the young woman's flustered reaction. She liked Nina, actually. Her sense of fashion was peculiar as hell but she was smart, she was kind and she could take a breath without swearing, unlike her father. But she was a true Elric in that she attracted trouble the way her brother's tinkering experiments attracted fire trucks and insurance claims adjusters. She decided to risk bluffing Nina. It always worked so well with her father and brother. "You might as well tell her, Nina," Ruby advised with a look of convincing resignation. "Maes already spilled the beans to me."

Invisible sparks seemed to crackle in Nina Elric's aura. "I'll _kill_ him," she growled

The old woman's rings cut into Nina's hand in a tight grip the younger woman couldn't squirm out of if she tried. "In my office. _Now_."

"But Aunt Chris—"

"You think you're not too big to spank? _Try me_."

If Nina had had any idea what her father and stepfather had done to one another on the very chaise she was sitting on in Room 5, she'd have leaped off the crimson velvet upholstery and changed her skirts immediately. Now that she'd confided the truth to Aunt Chris she was too scared to move an eyelash.

Aunt Chris' eyes weren't melting with warmth—but that was par for the course. When she was very, very little only the reassurances from Poppy and Daddy could convince her that the gimlet-eyed ex-madam was not going to eat her. Eventually, she had come to love the old woman dearly for what she was, but unlike her mother or Aunt Gracia or her beloved Nana 'Zumi, Aunt Chris wasn't the hug-and-kiss-it-better type. As a young adult she had come to appreciate Chris Mustang's savvy and dead-on accurate judgment calls on people and situations—a gift she had transferred to her adopted son. The old woman smoked like a chimney, swore like a Drachman sailor, knew where all the bodies were buried and had absolutely no tolerance for bullshit or bullshitters. "You think I'm a scary old broad?" she would cackle. "Kid, if you knew the half of it you'd pee yourself and run for the hills. But—" she would add, flicking her cigarette for emphasis, "—just remember, you're family. I've got your back."

But just at this moment, Chris Mustang had her back up and was, as Uncle Jean would put it, 'about to open up a can of red-hot Whoopass" on Roy's beloved step-child. The green eyes were hot with anger and the only thing that kept a manicured hand from slapping the crap out of the young Elric's lovely face was a lifetime of self-control and her knowledge that Roy-Boy would never forgive her if she did.

"I can see Maes pulling a stunt like this," she rasped, pulling hard on her filter tip and blowing a stream of blue smoke above her head as she bawled the girl out. "I _expect_ him to act like an idiot-he's a male. But I always figured you to be the one with some common sense…at least I did up until now." She stabbed out her smoke in a gilded ash tray and jammed another between her rouged lips, snapping her lighter open and puffing angrily before continuing. Nina stifled the urge to cough; the smoke was making her eyes water. "You got any idea how much damage you could do to Roy's career? All he's worked for, sacrificed for?" The newly lit cigarette was waiving inches from Nina's nose now. ""So some dumb broad with the morals of a rattlesnake writes a book that's 'sposed to blow the lid off the shit that went down on The Promised Day. You think the government doesn't have some idea why every goddamn person in this country was killed that day-or why we're all alive? The public was told some rogue alchemists and the military tried to overthrow the government and managed to kill Bradley and that brat Selim. Breda and his boys made Roy look like the savior of the nation over the radio and Anna Bradley hammered the last nail in to make the deal secure. Hell, not even that bastard Edison making Gracia go on the radio and accuse Roy of being an ambitious, underhanded, backstabbing cocksucker, plotting to take Bradley down—_which he has been_, if ya wanna get absolutely technical about it—could turn the people against him.

"Now, I don't like this whole 'Government OF The People' bullcrap worth a damn, but Roy made a promise to himself and to Ed and to the people that he would give 'em a democracy and that's the price you pay, kid. He's gonna be opposed, and those muckrakers are gonna find the skeletons in the closet-you think Roy doesn't know what might happen? That every manipulation and underhanded deed and scheme that Roy played against Bradley is gonna be dragged to the surface? He knows, kid! And I'll tell you this: he hated that bastard enough that he'd have sucked every cock in Bradley's cabinet if he had thought it would bring him one step closer to tearing that playhouse down. Would have—and I'd have done it too. We owe our goddamn _lives_ to my boy—my boy and your family.

"And THEN, you snot-nosed little know-it-all, you and your idiot brother decide to sabotage the printer's office in hopes that you could stop _Fire And Vice_ from coming out—you get all cute and dress up in your little costumes and snoop around—you suck at that, by the way. You should have asked me or one of my girls to do it—and ruin the printing rolls and oh—since you couldn't leave well enough alone—you dig out all those 'Buckety Buckety' manuscripts, doctor them up and leave 'em where the publishers can find them-ohhh….you thought you were _so_ goddamn cute and clever, didn't you? Well," the old woman was wheezing now with the exertion of her sustained rant, "all you did was made that slut Winchell a piss-pot full of money-and if anybody finds out what you did it will look like Roy put you up to it. They could impeach him for that kind of shit—or didn't that thought ever cross your mind, missy?"

Something very cold clutched Nina's insides and she paled visibly. "I-im—_impeach?_"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid and selfish? Damn right, kid. I said _impeach_. You want me to get you a dictionary or do I have to explain impeachment to you in words of two syllables or less so you can understand _what the hell you did to try and wreck everything Roy has done to save this goddamn country?_"

Nina Elric did not weep often. She was not very good at it and she made odd, rusty choking noises into the handkerchief Aunt Chris thrust at her, shoulders shaking violently. At long last the old lady patted her on the shoulder. "All right, all right…knock it off, kid," she said, not unkindly. "If you want to learn the intelligence game, you and your idiot brother need to talk to somebody who knows where to go and who to blow." One corner of Chris' mouth lifted; it was very nearly a smile. "You were just trying to help. I get it. Promise me you won't do anything else stupid without talkin' to me first—and that goes for Maes too."

Nina blew her nose and nodded miserably. "All right. Go wash your face, girl. Pull yourself together and I'll get Ruby to run you home."

###

Whiteness was swirling around the windows and through the cracks in the walls he could feel an unpleasant draft.

The shattered crockery was disposed of, shards swept away along with the broken bits of the ginger house and spilled candies. The teapot had been rinsed, dried and put away. They would not be needing it for awhile. However, the table was set with fresh linens in the event of callers, and there were enough tea cakes and biscuits for hospitality should the President come calling, as Collins expected.

His hand must not tremble, he reminded himself as he straightened the potted plants by the front door that Maes had tumbled over. It was a mercy that the steps had not been iced over yet, or he would have been hurt much worse when Collins shoved him backwards out the front door and down the steps, slamming the door behind him.

A finger laid discreetly aside his cheek caught a single salty drop. _I've ruined everything_.

They had taken Selim away in the ambulance, Collins following behind, driving Mrs. Bradley who was pale and dizzy and disoriented. Selim had been injected with a sedative and was asleep now, he had been told, after having been restrained for fear he would harm himself. Mrs. Bradley had been admitted for observation for a few days. He had made discreet inquiries and was told that Maes Elric had not been admitted for treatment—at least not today. "Depends on what he gets up to over the Solstice," and orderly told him good-naturedly. "I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't turn up with a broken finger or needing something stitched up or a chemical burn of some sort. He's the closest thing our emergency triage has to a regular visitor."

So…no broken bones. Thank goodness. But every time he replayed the moment in his mind he felt sick. "I….I threw him out. I _hit_ him. What in the world was I _thinking_?"

And then the President would come. President Roy Mustang, the man he had served so long and, he hoped, so well. If it had not been for the patronage of President Mustang and his aunt Collins with still be Dogshit Davy, living off the mean streets, with his mother long gone and his father long dead. He owed his life to the Mustangs, and all the President had ever asked him to do was look after Anna Bradley and her strange, simple-minded son Selim. He had failed, failed utterly and there was nothing for it but to call His Excellency and report—if Maes hadn't told on him already, coming home bruised from head to foot and unable to forgive being manhandled and chucked out—especially after spending a blissful hour buried inside the young butler. _I can still smell Maes on my skin,_ Collins groaned inwardly. _I can taste him. His…he's still…in…me. He'll be done with me for nearly breaking his neck. _ There was an awful wrench in his guts over that loss and his heart began to hammer from the stress of it all.

In one horrible afternoon he had failed his mission, he had been unable to care for his employer, Selim had seemingly lost his mind and on top of that, Collins had most certainly lost his best friend and lover. After this catastrophe, even Miss Nina and kind Miss Elycia would be done with him. Only one thought scared him worse than being questioned by the President:

_"Mr. Sebastian will have my head for this!"_

###

Judging from the racket, it sounded like Maes was ducking pretty well. Ed was still reasonably sure that Izumi had landed a few good wallops on her grandson, hopefully without using any of the pitchforks or rakes hanging on the walls nearby.

"You INGRATE!" _CRASH!_ "You ungrateful little monster!" _CRAAAACKKK!_ "Don't you EVER, EVER let me hear you talk like that about your mother again!" Something splintered and one of Izumi's slip-on sandals went flying. Judging from the loud _OOOFFF _that followed, the other shoe had hit home somewhere in his son's midsection.

"Screw this, he's a grownup now. Maybe he mouthed off about Winry, but that's for me to handle, not Teacher. This isn't alchemy student crap. She has no right-"

"-she may not be married to your father anymore but—"

"_Father? _ _I wish to hell he WAS my father_!"

###

"This is not your fault, Collins."

What _was_ it about young men and women? Always so eager to blame themselves for things they have no control over. "I wasn't that idiotic when I was their age," Roy assured himself, pouring a splash of brandy in his snifter, pausing to savor its heady aroma. "Flogging myself over things I couldn't change…" He shook his head, and ignored that still, small voice of conscience that poked at him, eager to remind him of the endless sleepless nights spent wallowing in guilt over the war, over Hughes, over…over _everything_.

Collins had been scared half to death but he had called Roy anyway. _Good. That kid has proved his worth time and time again. He had no idea that Dr. Knox had already told me everything._ "You attempted to stop Maes. He had no way of knowing that Selim has been shielded from any references to alchemy the whole of his life. Selim was damaged as a result of a failed alchemic transmutation attempt during the coup attempt. Mrs. Bradley adopted him after learning her own son and husband had been killed. There is no guessing what Selim remembers, if anything. Point is, you are not to blame and neither is Maes. And, " he added wryly, "judging from the way you handled events at the hospital, I am certain Sebastian will find no fault in your service….or," he was chuckling now, "let's just say I'll _make_ certain Sebastian finds no fault."

"Th-thank you, Your Excellency!"

"Oh—and by the way, I wouldn't be to concerned about my son. He's having a little talk with his alchemy teacher. She's not happy with him. Any bruises he might have gotten from you in the performance of your duties will be completely forgotten by the time _she_ gets done with him…"

###

Maes glanced over his shoulder. Edward Elric, the man who had raised him, loved him, guided him and been his hero the whole of his young life, made a wordless gasp of astonishment as he stood there, framed by the splintered remains of the potting shed door.

Nobody moved.

Eventually, Edward stepped through the hole Izumi had kicked through and stepped to the young man's side. Maes was on his knees now, sporting a number of impressive contusions and bleeding slightly from a scrape over one eyebrow. His handsome features were bunched up into a knot of misery and his cheeks were wet with tears.

Edward knelt beside him. "What did you say?"

"I…I said…I wish to hell you really were my father!"

"Mmmm." One gloved hand gently ruffled the tangled mane of gold that was too blonde to have come from his mother's side. He glanced around at the rubbish and dirt around him. "What did you do, knock his brains out? I'm pretty sure he had some before you dragged him in here." He feigned a comical search, then shrugged helplessly. "Oh well, I bet your sister can spare some. She won't even miss them. C'mon," he pulled his son to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned up and stitched up and I'm sure you'll start talking sense once we get some coffee into you-"

Maes drew away from his father, shaking his head. "It's true, isn't it? All these years…_all these years…_everybody's been lying to me….and I've been walking around all this time like an idiot, thinking that you…you were…"

Izumi frowned. "Maes, what in the world-"

Ed chimed in after her. "Where in the hell did-"

"_I heard them! I saw them!" _ Mae's face was flushed and his topaz eyes were wild with barely suppressed rage. "She…she said…_goddamn it!_"

"Maes! Don't swear!"

Ed glared at his sensei. "Lay off the kid." His hands rested on his son's shoulders, and the sorrow in his boy's face was terrible to see. "There's nothing you can't tell me, Maes." His voice was quiet and encouraging. "Nothing you say is going to be worse than the way this is hurting you. Talk to me."

"She said….she loved _him_. Uncle Al….she said…she said to him, and he was crying and saying 'no, no'…." Maes closed his eyes. "she said…she'd loved Uncle Al all along…and that _he_ must never know the truth…that it would break _his_ heart if he ever found out…but she'd kept it bottled up inside—"

"And you thought that she was talking about _you?_" Ed stared in amazement at Izumi. "Kids! Geeze! They think the whole world revolves around them and then beat themselves up over it!"

"You did at his age," Izumi answered calmly. "You were worse."

Ed ignored her. "Son…listen. _Listen_. She wasn't talking about you. She was talking about Pitt-and she was talking out her ass." He pressed down on Maes' shoulders until he sat down on the toolbox, badly dented from his battle with his grandmother. "Your mom…that whole business with her…y'know…feeling…I don't know…_stuff_…for your uncle. She went through a phase after we split, before Uncle Pitt went up to see her in Rush Valley. Al was—shit, you have no idea how famous he was back then. All over the papers and stuff. I even think there was Alphonse the Aeronaut toilet paper there for awhile, heh heh…" It was a lame joke. Thankfully Maes was too miserable to notice. "Anyway, your mom got all kinda caught up in the image, like she'd never seen Al before. And that was hard for Al. He really had feelings for your mom and she never noticed until it was too late."

"He's right," Izumi told her grandson, her anger gone in a flash. "Alphonse knew that it wouldn't work, that the same things that drove Winry and Edward apart would eventually come between them, too, if they tried to have a life together. Then Pitt came back into her life for the first time since they were in school. He loved your mother then. He loves her now. She loves him too, but grief has made her forget that for awhile. She'll be all right, Maes. You will be too."

"But…Uncle Al could still be-?"

Ed suddenly colored right up to his hairline. "Not a chance."

'How do you know?" Maes demanded.

"Because…welll…ah…" Edward hadn't looked this embarrassed since the time he had to explain to a five year old Maes why he was 'kissing Uncle Roy's pee-pee' when the child walked in on them one night after a bad dream. "I mean…Uncle Al was at the wedding-but he left on the train to East City right after the wedding supper and was gone for two years in Xing…and I…well…I know for a…for a fact that your…your mom was…she…she was…ah…_oh, damn it!_ SHE WAS AS IGNORANT AS I WAS!_ Are you satisfied, goddamn it? _It was a total disaster but we…figured it out…enough…to make _you_." Ed shuddered as if the memory was one he dreaded. "You're MINE, kid. Maybe you got the rough end of the deal getting stuck with me, but the one damn good thing I did right in my life was make you and your sister. And that's the same reason, "he added gently, "not to be mad at your mom. She's _human_, son. And on the scale of life fuck-ups, her having a crush on my brother is chicken-feed compared to me transmuting my dead mother and turning my brother into a blood splat inside a suit of animated armor. She'll get over it—so you get over it, okay?"

Damn, he looked so _young_. It wrenched Ed's heart to see his son so upset. Awkwardly, impulsively, he pulled Maes into a bear hug. "And you know what, knucklehead?" he whispered urgently, "if—and I mean by some weird twist of fate—_if_ you actually were fathered by another man…you know what? _He'd have to fight me for you_. Nobody's gonna take you or Nina away from me. You got that?"

Izumi stepped quickly to Ed's side, winding her arms around her boys, blinking back tears of her own, so proud of how Edward had fought his own innate aloofness to become a father any son would be proud of.

"_Trisha_," she offered a silent thanksgiving in her heart as she laid her cheek against Edward's hair, _"you did well….you did well indeed."_

###

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How's the kid?"

Ed poured himself a brandy and leaned against the tall man sitting on the hearth, savoring the warmth. "Raiding the pantry with his sister. Don't blame me if Solstice dinner ends up being bread and cheese and sausage."

"I've had worse."

"Me too."

A pause. "Aunt Chris went pretty hard on Nina."

"Huh! Least she didn't break a hoe handle over her head. What kind of trouble did she get into this time?"

Roy smiled a little. "Same sort of crazy thing you'd have done. She and Maes have been chewed out enough for one day."

A sharp elbow dug in Roy's side. "You're not going to tell me."

"Would if I were worried about it." He took a sip. "If it gets to be a problem we'll…we'll deal with it."

The clock struck midnight. "Happy Solstice."

"You too." Roy turned and reached towards the fireplace. "Now…let me see if this works…"

"Huh?  
"Something I've been experimenting with." Scarred palms slapped together and a ring of pearly smoke began to form above the smoldering coals.

Ed was impressed. "Neat trick. We should hire you out to do children's parties."

"Shut up." Carefully manipulating the air currents, Roy shaped the smoke ring into a band. "Give me your hand."

The band of smoke moved down Ed's ring finger, shimmering briefly in the firelight. "Short and sweet," Roy told him quietly. "Whatever's mine is yours, including my life. Whatever happens, I've got your back. No half lives. No half promises. All or nothing-as long as you want me."

"That goes for me too," Ed answered as their hands clasped. "Is that it?"

"That's all it needs to be. We'll make it legal, of course. But as far as I'm concerned, it's a done deal, Edward. Now," he rose and grinned down at his new husband. "Let's go take a _bath, shall we?"_

….TO BE CONTINUED…..

* lyrics adapted from "At The Closing Of The Year" by Hans Zimmer and Trevor Horn


	19. Chapter 19

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 19: BLOOD AND FIRE AND ALCHEMY

By The Binary Alchemist 2013

"_Doves_, you said?" Mustang glanced up at Colonel Hawkeye as if he hadn't quite heard her….or if he had, he didn't believe her.

"Yes, sir. _Doves_." She glanced at her notebook. "Five hundred and fifty-five for good luck, to be precise. They arrived early this morning in what appear to be modified chicken coops. Major Havoc has them stored in stable so they won't become chilled."

"Doves, huh?" Dark eyes did not blink. "And….what…_precisely_…are they doing in the stable?"

"Making a mess, sir."

"I see." He slid off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm guessing that Princess Elena of Aerugo would be deeply offended if the doves were not released at my wedding?"

"That _is_ the custom, sir."

Ed glanced up from his coffee. "I know exactly what Havoc will say about this." He hoisted an imaginary rifle to his shoulder. "Click-click…_BOOM_!"

Roy scowled. So it was going to be _that_ kind of morning, was it? "Not funny, Ed. These are a wedding gift from the Princess.  
"And they cook up really nice with red wine in pastry-which her brother served us last time we visited ol' Claudio. Guess he's just sending us his leftovers, huh?"

"Well, get them out of my stable. Get someone to rig up a dovecote or whatever. Oh, and get Bacalla on the phone and tell him that we've decided on the rack of lamb with fresh mint sauce for the wedding supper. Make sure he orders the meat straight from Resembool. No cutting corners with cheap mutton from Creta."

Ed tossed Roy the morning paper. "That would help out the farmers back home. The bad weather at harvest really hurt them. Getting their lamb on the menu at a presidential wedding could help 'em out. Maybe Peehole could export it outside the East for them."

A dismissive gesture from the Commander in Chief. "Take care of it, Hawkeye. And make sure the wedding plans remain on schedule. I have enough headaches as it is."

After decades of taking his right hand woman for granted, Roy Mustang didn't even notice the moment of silence that followed as he stirred his coffee, nor did he notice the distinctly frosty look she gave him before answering. ""_Yes, sir."_

Roy bit into a slice of dry toast, ignoring Ed's quips and concentrating on his breakfast…what little there was of it. He frowned. He really wanted a plate of ham and eggs but his image team had advised Roy to drop a couple of pounds to look better for the newsreel cameras that followed him on every stop of the campaign trail. His stomach growled in protest—a stomach that was still washboard taut. Roy still ran the army obstacle course a couple of times a week—could outrun many twenty-somethings. Why all this sudden alarm about his good looks? Was a goddamn spoonful of jam on his toast going to make that big a difference during the Election? "Next on the agenda?" he growled.

"We have the latest election poll results, sir." Hawkeye didn't look amused. "You're still ahead of Samuelson, but he's gaining in popularity with the 16-to-35 year olds." Before the President could answer, she added tersely, "Males, that is. The female voters from all ages—"

"—think I'm devastating—"

"—I didn't say that, sir."

"You didn't have to." A smirk crept over the rim of his coffee cup. "I think it has more to do with my position on equal pay, women's rights, education and job opportunities…but being better looking than my opponent doesn't hurt, does it? Next item?" He flipped open the paper to the sports section. He was halfway through an article on the spring steeplechase racing season before it occurred to him that the Colonel had not spoken. "_Next item,_ Hawkeye! Let's go!"

He glanced up. Her face was impassive as ever. "Well?"

She dropped her note pad right in the middle of his dry toast and grapefruit. "Read it yourself, _Sir_." Before his jaw could drop in astonishment, she saluted, spun on her boot heels and marched briskly out of the Presidential office, closing it behind her with a bang. There was a loud '_ooof!'_ in the hall, followed by a curt "sorry, Alphonse' as the footsteps died away.

The door to Roy's office opened just a crack. A hand poked cautiously in, waving a handkerchief. "Very amusing, Alphonse," Mustang snapped. "Come on in."

"As if this morning wasn't bad enough," Alphonse sighed, closing the door behind him.

"Who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?" The sour look on his brother's face made Edward instantly suspicious. "Those movie people still hanging around?" Neither Elric brother was overjoyed that the popular stage musical "The Fullmetal Alchemist" was being made into a motion picture right here in Central in the middle of the Election campaign. Donal Samuelson had been, for decades, a fixture in the radio, news and film circles in the capital. He had suggested—oh, he was only joking, he insisted—that the film's release had been timed as a public relations stunt by the Mustang team. Even more embarrassing was the incident on Solstice Eve when Colonel Riza Hawkeye had publicly smashed a dessert into the face of one of the film's stars, the legendary Gladys Turlough, after an argument in the café at Il Gattina. There were no charges pressed, but the 'Battle of the Hawkeyes" only made the Mustang team look ridiculous. Al had stepped in to try and assist with the damage control and it was beginning to strain even Al's good nature.

"Let me guess," Roy sighed. "Sherman Lehrer has taken over the role of Colonel Roy Mustang in the musical and intends to play the role in a dress, right?"

Ed scowled. "One of these days I'm gonna get the truth out of him about sabotaging your gala for a payoff from that cocksucker Samuelson—_and_ trying to make it look like Gladys Turlough was behind it." He cracked his knuckles for emphasis. "I'd _love_ to beat the truth out of that son of a bitch."

"Easy, Ed," his brother cautioned. "We've got bigger problems to worry about. That's what I came to tell you."

"Bigger than Samuelson being a dirty, underhanded pissrag who needs an automail ass-kicking?"

Alphonse laid a paper-wrapped parcel on Roy's desk. The return address was "Odyssey Press, 1003 Fleet Street, Central" and had been sent second class library rate. "Roy…I'm sorry…I'm so damn sorry. I wish…." His voice trailed off and he bowed his head.

Roy made no move to open the package. He stared at it coolly, his fine features giving no clue as to his thoughts of the moment.

Edward, on the other hand, shot off the couch like a rocket. "That….that's not-"

"I'm sorry," Alphonse repeated. "If there was anything…_anything_…I could have done to stop it—"

Roy looked up from his reverie. "_Freedom of speech. Freedom of expression. Freedom of the press._ That's what I've been fighting for all these years, Al. Those are the privileges of a democratic society." One corner of his mouth turned up in an ironic smile. "For better or for worse." One gloved finger brushed a corner of the package. "For _worse_, this time, I'm guessing. For me, anyway." The smile deepened. "Perhaps if our children hadn't meddled in the publishing career of Kelley Winchell this might not have happened…well…waiting is not going to make this go away, is it?"

Rising to his feet, Roy gathered up the parcel and headed for the door.

"Hey…what…where are you going?" Ed looked genuinely alarmed.

Roy paused but did not turn around. "To hell, I suspect."

###

"He's not coming this morning, Ma'am."

"He?"

"President Mustang, Ma'am." A pillow slid under Mrs. Bradley's feet and Collins tucked the afghan warmly around her shoulders. "He sends his regrets. He said that he will contact you later during the week about stopping by for tea."

Mrs. Bradley smiled gently up into the young man's face. _Such a good boy_, she thought to herself. _So kind to me, and he manages Selim so well._ "Please, David, there's no need to fuss over me. I'm doing fine."

"And it's my intention to see that you stay that way—you and Master Selim as well."

The thin winter sunshine filled the room and as he turned his face to adjust the draperies Anna Bradley noted yet again that David Collins was a fine looking young man. His light brown hair tumbled in waves to his shoulders—young men nowadays were often cropping it off short—and his eyes were a lovely grey-blue, set into a fine-featured face, carefully schooled in the proper attitude and expression of the majordomo of her household. It must be hard, she suspected, to be so young and have to be so serious and responsible all the time. She practically had to force him to take an afternoon off and it worried her that young Maes Elric had not stopped by since the dreadful day that Selim had had what was politely referred to as 'an episode'.

That was why Mustang would come, if not today, eventually, she fretted. Selim had been strapped down in a hospital bed under sedation for the better part of a week and had been strangely subdued ever since. Quite a few doctors, nurses and researchers had come to examine and observe him, but the only conclusion they had reached was that he had experienced an unknown trauma and that al that could be done was stabilize him, sedate him if necessary and send him home. If he did not improve, they warned, he would have to be institutionalized.

Mustang had delayed this meeting every week for the past month. He wasn't fooling her. He was, she believed, a kind man at heart. It would not be easy for him to say to her that her son must be put away…or worse, put to rest for good. It was a relief that he had not come to tea and witnessed one of his strange screaming fits, curling into a ball and shrieking so loud the windows rattled, poor Collins down on his knees on the carpet beside him, trying to calmly soothe her poor damaged boy until Selim would finally go limp with exhaustion, sobbing on the young butler's shoulder.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Collins at her elbow "Ma'am? There is home care nurse here to see Master Selim. A routine visit. Do you wish to see her?"

Nurses were always stopping by, sometimes three times a day. They measured Selim's vitals, ran some simple baseline neurological tests and kept notes in the log for Dr. Knox. "No, dear. Just show her upstairs and see to Selim's lunch, if you please."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Hello, Selim." The nurse's dark brown hair was pulled back in a severe knot under her starched white cap. "Don't be afraid. No needles this time. I just want to ask you some questions…oh, very, very simple ones. It will be a little like playing a game. " She reached into her pocket and pulled out a red lollipop, which she unwrapped and handed to the simple-minded young man. "Now, let's begin."

She showed him a series of pictures—a bird, a cat, a picture of Central Park. "Very, very good, Selim." She stepped to the door, glanced around, the closed and locked it. "Now, let's see if you know some of _these_ faces."

A pale man in a crisp military uniform, his black hair neatly combed back under a uniform cap with a silver badge. "That's the General. He comes to tea. He brings me picture books sometimes," Selim confided proudly.

A strange, ugly man in a white coat with a gold tooth. A dark-haired woman with long, long fingers. A youngish man with a sharp, toothy grin and sunglasses. Another of a bald-headed man, childishly sucking on one finger. Selim stared and stared over these last three, frowning deeply. "No?" she asked gently. "Do you know _him_, then? Do you know this man?"

Selim's eyes grew wide. He touched the picture, tracing the image with his fingers. The image of a broad-shouldered man of middling years, his long pale hair pulled back into a neat pony tail and his squarish chin fringed with whiskers.

_"F…Fa…ther?"_

Kelley Winchell _beamed_. From her large nurse's bag she drew out a small 8mm movie camera. Selim did not even notice. "Selim, is that man the father? Is he?"

"Fa….ther….Fath…er…" His face began to crumple. "Father…_hurt!"_

She handed him another lollipop and the young man jammed it into his mouth, sucking violently on it. "It's all right, Selim…you're safe…it's just a picture. He is long, long gone…he can't hurt you ever, ever again. Is that man your father, Selim?"

"Father…_hurt!"_

'That man…Hohenheim Elric….did he hurt you, Selim? Did he clap his hands and make lights and scare you? Did….The…_Father_….hurt you like that?"

She had to quickly jam the camera in her bag, still running, while she dove for the door, unlocking it just as that annoying young butler ran upstairs as Selim began to curl himself into a knot, his screams rising and rising as he began to rock violently, back and forth.

"I don't have any sedatives," she gasped. "I'm just a visiting nurse. You watch him and I'll go call for help…."

In the chaos that followed she was able to slip out the kitchen door, duck down the alley and dive into the car she had borrowed from a friend of Frank Archer. She tore off the dark wig and nurse's cap, tugged a knitted winter cap and drove around the corner to the nearest phone box. Dropping a coin in the slot, she dialed the emergency operator. "I was walking my dog outside the Bradley's big house," she told the operator frantically. "Somebody is just screaming and screaming in there…it sounds like somebody's getting hurt. _Can someone please hurry?_"

"This is going to cost you."

Frank Archer smiled at his accomplice, and if she had not been shaking so badly she would have caught the contempt in his voice. "Cash or royalty percentages on the book?"

"Fuck you." She swallowed a burning mouthful of top shelf whiskey, shuddering at it hit her stomach. Her hands trembled so much he had to light her cigarette for her. "That's the last time I'm setting foot near that kid."

"You got the film."

"In the bag."

Archer examined the camera. "You shot the whole reel?" He frowned. "That's—what, four and a half minutes? What speed were you shooting? If it's too slow it'll look like hell in a newsreel. Okay—looks like 15 frames per second. That'll be okay. That's a lot of wasted frames if it was running in your handbag. What did you get?"

"What you wanted. Corroborating evidence. Except," she took a deep drag and blew it towards the ceiling, "you can't convict a dead man, and you can't convict his sons for what he did."

"That's not what we have in mind, Kel." Archer clipped the end off his cigar and splashed another measure of brandy in his glass. "You're thinking too small. "

"Don't insult me, you cretin!"

Archer chuckled and reached inside his jacket. He tossed a heavily stuffed envelope towards Kelley. She tore it open eagerly. "There's more where that came from. Our campaign has deep pockets—and something tells me donations to the Samuelson election fund are going to skyrocket once our little bombshell hits the bookshelves. You know, in Aerugo there was a revolt against the monarchy in the 1700's because some idiot with patriotic dreams wrote a book about a peasant who stole bread to feed his dying sister, went to jail and when he came out started a revolution. It was a work of fiction that turned Aerugo upside down. Never, _never_, underestimate the power of the written word, my dear. Especially," he added with a wink, "when you have lots and lots of pretty pictures to illustrate the story…"

###

"Roy? What the hell-? What the fuck are you doing, drinking at this hour? Shit—"

Mustang was sitting in his office. The blinds were closed. By the dim light of the winter sunlight creeping through the cracks, the President of Amestris was reading the book Alphonse had brought him. It was an illustrated galley proof—the final pre-publication draft of a book, sent to authors prior to release. The photographs were not the same high resolution that would appear in the hardcover release but the images were clear enough and the damage had been done.

Roy lifted his glass and toasted his lover. "The world is on fire, Edward. It's burning down over our heads. There's nothing I can do to put out the flames. Nothing."

"Gimme that!" Ed stared at the cover, read the title and felt sick to his stomach:

_Blood and Fire: Alchemy, Genocide And The Ishvallan War of Extermination. Text by F. Archer and K. Winchell, illustrated with never-before seen photographs from the Bradley Archives._

###

_"Major Mustang…Major Mustang?"_

_ The man was very weary, very dusty and reeked of smoke and the stink of charred corpses. He had that thousand-yard-stare the soldiers talk about but his back was straight, his expression resolute. "I'm sorry. I can't talk right now. I'm trying to locate Captain Hughes—"_

_ The young junior officer with the camera was not easily put off. "Sir, if you'd care to comment about the operation in the Dahlia Sector—"_

_ "I'm sorry. Move along, Corporal."_

_ "Sir…please!" The junior officer lowered his camera. "Those…those were people in there…women and children….you didn't evacuate them?"_

_ "Corporal…I am not at liberty to discuss the details of this mission. We are here to follow orders."_

_ "Major, I was right outside the gate…right outside the gate. There was a mother and her baby…they couldn't get away from the flames. They…" he began blinking rapidly against the smoke and the tears rising in his eyes. "You just…snapped your fingers and…she didn't even have time to scream."_

_ "Corporal, if you have any questions, address them to your commanding officer. Now if you will excuse me-"_

_ A hand clutched at Mustang's sleeve. "This—this is murder, sir!"_

_ "This is war." The baby-faced young State Alchemist stared down at Corporal Donal Samuelson, field photographer and telegraph operator from the First Signal Corps. The major's face was a mask of ivory, streaked with blood and soot. He seemed so cold, so remote and detached from the nightmare of blood and fire he had left in his wake. He was the pale face of mythic death incarnate. Pulling his arm free without a word, Major Roy Mustang walked away from Donal Samuelson, too numb to give him a second thought…_

_ Until now…_

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	20. Chapter 20

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 20: SHADOWS ON GLASS

By The Binary Alchemist 2013

Roy Mustang didn't believe in polls.

"That's because you've never had anyone oppose you, dipshit," Ed told his lover. "And I'm telling you, you better _start_ paying attention. I'm not saying you're slipping but you'd better kiss a few more babies and kiss a few more asses around the country. Politics stink, but –"

"—but there's a rising backlash against the military roots of this nation. And like it or not," Roy shook his head, "I'm part and parcel of the military. Even if I resigned my commission it's not something I could escape, even if I wanted to."

Ed looked worried. "The book?"

Roy didn't have to ask which book Ed was referring to. _Blood And Fire: Alchemy, Genocide And The Ishvallan War of Extermination_ would be released in two weeks and the Mustang administration was bracing for a major backlash. "Don't ask, Ed. I'm not going to—"

"Goddamn you, Mustang!" Ed snapped. "You're going to just sit here and let that bitch Winchell and that hack Frank Archer publish that piece of muck-raking—"

"—pictures don't lie, Ed. Do you think I'm such a fool that I didn't know all these years that someday, _somehow_, the whole bloody truth about the Dahlia campaign and Executive Order 3066 wasn't going to come out? "

"It wasn't your fault!" Ed grabbed Roy by the shoulders, digging in his fingers to keep from punching his lover in frustration. "You were just a goddamn kid, following orders! Shit!" The angry grasp became a caress. "It's not gonna end like this, is it? What are we gonna do?"

###

In the days that followed Ed was to remember the clarity of Roy's expression, the utter lack of fear and his stubborn insistence in Doing What Was Right.

_"We're going to tell the truth_

"Aunt Ree, would you like me to call Signor Bacalla for you?" Nina looked up from the absurdly long 'must-do' list of wedding arrangements that she'd offered to assist with. "I'm the only Elric who can truly speak his language."

Hawkeye smiled a little. The child was trying to help, but the President had made the wedding arrangements Hawkeye's personal responsibility and she didn't feel comfortable delegating any of the crucial details. "That's all right, Nina. Signor Bacalla's Amestrian is quite good."

Nina's eyebrow lifted. "Think so?"

"Chef Ramsay and I have never had any difficulties getting imported foods and wines for state dinners."

"And he's overcharged you disgracefully!" Hawkeye opened her mouth to protest but Ed's daughter waved her off. She gathered up the catering estimate for the wedding supper and then reached for the phone. "I spent a year in King Claudio's palace in Aerugo. It was highly instructive, and not simply in the arts and sciences and statecraft. Listen and learn—_ascoltare e imparare_."

Nina dialed the international operator and waited for Mario Bacalla, Pio's half-Xingese son whose real father was the esteemed Royal Alkahestry Master to the court of Emperor Ling Yao, Dr. Kenichi Chen. Marrying Dr. Chen's Drachman sweetheart and giving Nataly's child a name had been one of the best business decisions Pio Ignacio Bacalla had ever made. Mario had a tremendous crush on the older Nina Elric and she manipulated the young apprentice merchant as skillfully and shamelessly as her beloved Poppy would have done with an office full of adoring secretaries in the Bradley command. _""Mario? Mio caro amico, sa bene a parlare con te di nuovo, questa è Nina Elric – e dal modo,_ " she winked at Hawkeye, _"il profumo che mi hai mandato per il mio compleanno è semplicemente perfetta! " _ ("Mario? My dear friend, it's good to talk to you again, This is Nina Elric—and by the way, the perfume you sent my on my birthday was perfect!") "For killing moths," Nina mouthed as an aside to the older woman she'd always regarded as her auntie. "May I please speak to your papa, _per favore?_ Thank you so much, _mio amico!"_

After a moment, Nina's posture changed and her voice became charming and persuasive in a manner Hawkeye had heard many times in the old days back at Central when it was Roy who wore a Colonel's stars on his shoulder boards. "Signor Bacalla? Nina Elric. I'm well, _grazie_. My father? Yes, he's still alive…but I wouldn't let that depress you. Now then," she adjusted her delicate rimless spectacles and snatched up the notes she had penciled in on Bacalla's estimate for catering services, "Colonel Hawkeye and His Excellency and Chef Ramsay and I have all gone over your estimate…I'm afraid that there are some items that might need to be…._re-negotiated.._"

Over the next hour, any doubts that young Nina had learned much as Roy Mustang's stepdaughter would be laid firmly to rest. "Tact," Roy had commented in Hawkeye's hearing, "is the art of telling a man he's a son of a bitch and have him thank you for the compliment." From that perspective, Nina handled her father's old nemesis with remarkable skill. Hawkeye wasn't quite fluent in Aerugoan but she caught a few references about horsemeat being found in sausages sold to Brigg's Mountain, fat from forbidden animal species being shipped to the Letoist restaurants to save money, undercutting the Xingese court by mixing quality spice with minute quantities of sawdust and re-labeling wines to fetch a better price. She was warm and cordial…and the threats woven into her cheery dialog were as masterful as they were slightly unnerving. Nina was _never_ coy, never kittenish, but by damn she was playing the man with the same skill that skyrocketed Roy Mustang to the presidency.

"_Si, si…_by my calculations that would be an error of…" she calculated in her head, "roughly 11261.43 Aerugoan lira—that's 1351124.955 Amestrian cens ,15,000 continental exchange units—or 93277.5 Xingese Yuan. Yes, yes, I know, Signor—however the integrity of such delicate matters like a Presidential wedding—the first in Amestrian history—requires that all transactions must be above reproach…oh, and I believe you and Nataly were searching for some of the older dairy culturing bacteria strains for your cheeses—_Propionibacterium shermanii and Streptococcus faecalis?_ No, _signor_, I am not joking. Yes," she was grinning now, "that would enable you to recreate some of the legendary cheeses of the last century. If….if we could re-negotiate your estimate as I suggested I can certainly provide the necessary introductions to the dairymen in the East who can provide those rare cheesemaking cultures…_si.._" She scribbled a new total and held it up to an amazed Colonel Hawkeye, who nodded quickly to agree. "Excellent, Signor. I'll inform Colonel Hawkeye and Chef Ramsay of the new estimate. _Ciao!"_ She hung up the phone and the smug satisfaction on her pretty face would have done her stepfather proud. "As they say in Aerugo, _'__È il pesce sciocco che cade nella rete'_—only the foolish fish fall into the net.' In this case, we have netted up a big, ugly _baccalᾴ_," she flinched at her own dreadful pun,

since the merchant's name could be translated as 'dried salted codfish'.

Hawkeye shook her head in amazement. "I had no idea you were so skilled in negotiations."

Nina looked demure, taking a ladylike sip of her tea. "This is Daddy's wedding, and I'm not going to allow Signor Peehole to pull one over on an Elric. I spent a lot of time in the palace library in Aerugo—and while I found the writings of Signor Machiavelli to be morally vile they were _highly _instructive. Now," she reached for the massive wedding checklist again. "Let's have a look at the bid from the florists, shall we?"

The door opened and Havoc shouldered his way in, carrying several stacks of heavy file boxes. "Nina? I've got those receipts you asked for—had to get them out of the warehouse—_whoops!"_ Havoc caught his foot on the umbrella stand that normally would not be placed on that side of the office door, sprawling flat onto the carpet and whacking his head hard enough to make him groan.

"Uncle Jean! Are you all right?" Nina hurried over to his side and inspected his scalp. "Let me look." Reaching into her skirt pocket she drew out a small penknife, tucked inside her handkerchief. Pretending to examine Havoc's head she made a quick shallow cut, blotting it with her handkerchief, quickly concealing the tiny knife inside her sleeve. "Oh! You've really hurt yourself!" Nina held up the handkerchief, spotted lightly with fresh blood. "Aunt Ree, you've got to get Uncle Jean to Doctor Knox!"

"But—"

"He could have a concussion!"

"Aren't you studying medicine?"

"I'm not qualified to practice on military personnel," Nina argued. "Please, Aunt Ree!"

Hawkeye felt a queer thumping inside her breast and her cheeks grew hot. Her face was as impassive as ever. "Come along, Major. I'll get you to the Infirmary."

Havoc nodded, then grimaced in pain. As Hawkeye helped him to his feet, he noticed Nina's right eye closing in a slow wink. He reached out and squeezed her hand. "Thanks for looking out for me, kiddo."

"Aunt Ree will take care of you," she answered as innocently as she could. Signor Machiavelli's writings might be unethical by Amestrian standards but, as the morning had proved, all bets were off when Nina Elric was looking after the people she loved….

In the car heading to the infirmary, he did not beg her to come back, as he would have a month ago. Instead he was quietly grateful for her kindness and spoke to her with a gentleness that tugged at Riza's heart. She could smell his familiar cologne—she had picked it out for him, and he was sitting close enough for the warmth of his body to be noticeable in ways that she found disturbing. "By the way," he mentioned, "that new experimental rifle arrived from Briggs this morning. The Enfiled EM2. They call it the Bullpup. Takes a .280 slug."

"That's not standard ammunition."

"I know, but Major General Armstrong says it's lighter to carry in the field and the accuracy is impressive."

"You've tested it?"

"I haven't unpacked it yet. I was going to do that after lunch."

"Oh."

"Sebastian and Ruby were coming to test it out at the range. Hell, ol' Sebby even said he'd bring tea. For a body guard he's got a weird sense of humor."

"Indeed."

"I think Collins is going to try and get over if Mrs. Bradley doesn't need him."

"Mmm."

"We'll all be over on Range 22 around three if you want to test things…I mean, if you want to test fire it with the…with the rest of us."

The pounding in her chest was making her ears ring and she felt distinctly uncomfortable. "I'll…bear that in mind, Major.."

###

"Get dressed. I'm calling Mustang."

Before Riza Hawkeye protest, Surgeon General Owen Knox snatched the phone off the hook and dialed his Commander in Chief. The nurse at the Triage noticed that Hawkeye was looking unwell and once she'd sent Havoc back had whispered a word with Dr. Knox. Before she could protest Hawkeye was escorted to an exam room and poked and prodded. Knox had come back, examined her chart and given Riza Hawkeye holy hell…

"Yeah. It's me. What the hell are you trying to do, kill your Adjutant, Roy? She's sitting in my exam room and when I tested her blood pressure it nearly blew the cuff right off her arm! No, I'm not joking. What the hell are you doing—driving her like a slave? She's going on furlough for a week, starting right now and by the time she gets back you damn well better appoint some staff under her so she can delegate some of that mountain of work you've dumped on her. She's only human—or have you forgotten that _again_?" Dr. Knox slammed the phone down and then snatched up her medical chart. "How old was your mother when she died?" he demanded. "She died young, I know. What caused it."

"About twenty-seven," Hawkeye answered. "My father never told me but he said it was sudden."

"About as sudden as a heart attack?" Knox looked like he was about to bite her. "No? Nobody ever thinks about women and heart disease. I've seen it run in families. Women who tell me that one day their mother wasn't feeling well then boom! Keels over and drops dead, no warning. And then I check their blood pressure and I see numbers I don't like." His finger stabbed at the numbers on Hawkeye's medical chart. "And I really don't like these numbers, Colonel. I'm not saying you're about to drop dead. But—" his finger wagged in her face now, "—I'm also saying that if these numbers don't go down in six month I'm going to have to consider giving you a medical discharge from the Army."

Medical _discharge_? Hawkeye paled visibly. "Sir, with all due respect, I can't—"

"You can and you _will_, or by damn I will sign your discharge papers so fast it'll make your head spin. And I'm not done with Mustang. That man has worked you to death since he's been in office—and now he's got you worrying over his goddamn wedding? That's not your problem. And you, lady, need to let your Adjutant staff do the legwork. You're tired, you're not sleeping well, you're less alert and likely to make stupid mistakes-and your blood pressure is through the damn roof. You still on the outs with Havoc?"

Before she could censor herself she shot back, "that's none of your business!"

"I'm the goddamn Surgeon General. Everything is my business, right up to and including Roy Mustang's bowel movements. All I know is that you've been cross as two sticks since before Solstice and now you're sitting in my triage looking like death warmed over and your blood pressure is absolutely not acceptable. If it makes you feel better, go boot Mustang in the ass. I don't care. But seems to me that with the wedding and," his eyes narrowed," _other things_, you've got a lot stuck in your craw, lady—and if you're dead you won't get a chance to get things off your chest. Now," his eyes were concerned even though his voice was snapping with irritation, "take these papers to Mustang. Here's a 'scrip for blood pressure medication and something mild to help you sleep. I want you back in six weeks and those numbers better start looking better…or else you'd better start thinking about early retirement…"

###

One of Maes' grand obsessions from earliest childhood was photography and film. At the age of five Winry had given him an old box camera that used old fashioned glass plate negatives and the boy became obsessed with it. Eventually Sig had converted an old linen closet in the Dublith house into a dark room and Maes saved his allowance for film and developing chemicals. He could have built his cameras and his crystal radios through alchemy like his sister but both Izumi and Winry insisted he learn electronics the hard way, wiring every component by hand. Eventually he went to Stoltovgrad for a summer of study and came back with his own movie camera, and while he was focusing now on building aeroplanes with his father his passion for photography and radio and film had never wavered.

Maes had been testing out some new skyrockets with some other students at the Hohenheim, capable of shooting out bursts of three colors in a great firery blossoms that lit up the sky for miles. Uncle Ling had sent a big box of them, along with a note that he hoped he would be able to come to Central for Ed's wedding along with his six favorite wives and nineteen of his oldest children. Maes wanted to rig up an electronic firing device that would be safer than running around lighting fuses by hand. While his sister wrangled on the phone with Bacalla, Maes checked and rechecked his circuitry, grinning hugely. "Nothing like spending an afternoon with explosives and electricity," he crowed, punching the ignition button on his homemade control panel.

There was a satisfying _whoooooshhhhhhh_ as the large skyrocket took off, followed by the crash of broken glass. "I think it hit the old green house," one of his friends told him.

"_Crap,_ You guys get out of here," Maes yelled. "Sebastian is going to be pissed!" _And Dad will skin me alive for shooting off stuff too close to the house_, he added to himself. He ducked into the garden shed where his Nana had given him an epic ass-whipping at Solstice and waited for the eagle-eyed major domo to come out to investigate. After a half hour the young man came out of hiding and headed up the garden path to check out the damage.

As kids they had been ordered to keep clear of the old greenhouse. It was unsafe and there was a high risk of the rickety structure coming down on someone's head. Uncle Roy hadn't ordered it razed for some reason and it eventually became entangled in wild bramble-roses and honeysuckle.

Hands on his hips, Maes studied the ramshackle mess. He grinned. ""Why the hell hasn't someone fixed it up with alchemy? Doesn't make sense, does it?" Fishing a nubbin of chalk out of his pocket he marked a simple array on the splintered wooden door and touched it carefully with his palms. His face got scratched as the rose canes blew off the walls but in an instant the framework was sturdy and the panes exposed to the sun once more. "Not bad…not bad at all," he congratulated himself "Nitwit might like this. She likes to putter around with bulbs and stuff," he planned aloud with no one but a few spiders to overhear. Spitting on a corner of his handkerchief, he rubbed at a half-darkened square of glass. "Get this cleaned up and clear, and then I'll see if the Tringhams can kit it out for her this spring…hey…what the….?"

Leaning in, he examined the smudged glass. It wasn't dirt. It was the negative image of a face he instantly recognized—it was a photographic glass negative plate and it was very old indeed. "King Bradley? Well, I'll be dipped in shit!"

###

"Shadows on glass, Donal. Shadows on glass that can change the future."

After flipping through the final publisher's proof of _Blood and Fire_, Donal Samuelson was shaking his head. "All those years ago…I'm surprised my glass negatives survived. A lot of the glass got resold to builders for greenhouses and other uses. Once they were coated with the silver salts solution to create the negative they were useless for pretty much anything else. I sold off most of the plates and kept copies of some of the albumen print photos because I knew…one day…I would take them all down."

Archer looked thoughtful. "You hated Mustang that much?"

"Mustang…that bastard Kimblee. Old man Comanche—glad the Alchemist Killer took him down, the bastard."

"Not Armstrong?"

Samuelson shook his head. "Didn't have the guts. Heard he broke and cried like a baby and they demoted him for cowardice. No wonder his sister hated his guts for years. But Mustang was the highest rank and did the most horrific damage—you think the pictures are bad? You didn't smell the stink of roasted bodies. You didn't hear them screaming. No," he closed the book resolutely. "Mustang was no innocent kid. He's a stone-cold killer. And I've been waiting…all these damn years for a chance to take him down. "

Something dawned on Archer and his eyes narrowed. "You were feeding information to the Old Guard. You were helping Edison and Foster and the others."

"I'm a _patriot_," Samuelson snapped. "And Mustang's got enough rope to hang himself now that he's insisting on making this country a democracy. Ha! I hope they hang the bastard!"

Frank Archer nodded. "You might get your wish, pal. You just might get your wish…."

###

Maes brought a bucket of water and a soft grooming brush from the stables and began gently cleaning off more of the panes of the old greenhouse, panes he had now identified as old photographic negative plates.

The old bramble-rose and the honeysuckle had kept the structure shady enough to protect a great deal of the images on the sides of the greenhouse. The winter sun was thin but just bright enough that he could study some of the clearer images. There was aA group of young men in an exercise yard. A man—a doctor, maybe?—measuring a boy's height. Another picture of Bradley, looking surprisingly young. "Wow..these have got to be from—hell, must be the 1800's. Look at the weird-assed clothes—"

_"Boo!"_

"AAAAHGGHHHHH!" Maes swung around, grabbing at his chest. His sister was smiling sweetly at him, looking terribly pleased with herself. "Damn it, Nitwit, don't _do_ that! Give me a damn heart attack!"

"Only guilty people have heart attacks. You weren't indulging in any carnal vices out here, were you?" She looked around. "Hmm…there's a noticeable absence of young butlers or foreign girls about, so I'm guessing you've been keeping your hands to yourself."

Maes hefted the bucket of soapy water. "You're about to get drenched."

"And you're about to get chewed out by Poppy if he finds you out here. My, my…if you're going to indulge in the sins of self-pollution, why not fondle yourself someplace less likely to come crashing down over your head?"

"Look what I found!"

Adjusting her glasses, Nina leaned in for a closer look. "Hmmm…I've heard of such things. I heard of someone making a conservatory with old xray plates but I didn't believe it. Have you shown this to Daddy yet?"

Maes shook his head. "He and Uncle Roy have been squabbling a lot lately. And I'm not going to ask why."

"Tell Uncle Alphonse, then. At best he might be interested, and at worse he might save you from getting yelled at."

"Better yet, let's let Uncle Jean in on this. He can keep a secret."

Nina beamed. "He's on the shooting range with Aunt Riza."

Maes whistled. "No foolin'? How'd you manage that?"

"Can't tell you _all_ my secrets, can I ?"

"Well, get Uncle Al—and see if you can get me a couple of tarps. I want to rig up something to protect these panes until I can take this greenhouse apart without having it crash down on my head."

"Tarp—check. Uncle-check. Absolute secrecy—check. Anything else?"

"_What the fuck?"_

"Sorry, fresh out of those. Seriously, is there anything—"

"Will you look at _that!?"_

One pane of glass held a negative image that looked very, very familiar. The last time he'd seen that face it was crumpled up and screaming after he'd attempted to repair a broken gingerbread house with alchemy.

_"Son of a bitch," Nina whispered, "it's Selim Bradley!"_

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	21. Chapter 21

OUR LIVES CHAPTER 21: ONE MAN'S WORDS ON A WINTER'S NIGHT

By The Binary Alchemist, 2013

"The timing of all this sucks!" Ed thundered, shoving his coffee cup aside and smacking the table so hard the silver rattled. "Goddamn it, Roy, isn't there anything you can do to change the date of the Central debate?"

Nina shot her father a sympathetic look over her hot buttered waffles and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Daddy, but the League of Women Voters set the date. I seriously doubt that they were thinking about Kelley Winchell when they picked it."

"I think," Alphonse ventured carefully, "that since it's going to happen—and it's going to happen the day before that book comes out, well….couldn't you use it to your advantage?"

Roy put down his napkin. "I'm open to suggestions, Al. What do you have in mind?"

"_You?"_

"Hiya, Mistah President!" The Ice Cream Blonde sashayed into the Presidential office wearing a skirt so tight it must have been painted on. She lingering in Central, shooting her scenes in the film version of the musical _The Fullmetal Alchemist_, and Roy offered a silent prayer to gods he did not believe in, grateful that Hawkeye was on a brief medical furlough and was missing this little meeting. Roy had not been pleased to learn about the so called 'café catfight' between his colonel and the starlet and was willing to go to any length to avoid Round Two. "Alphonse said you _needed_ me." There was something disconcerting in the way her tongue darted out and flicked her lower lip that made Roy immediately add "set fire to Al's office' to his personal to-do list for the day. "I'm always glad to lend you a…_hand_…or anything else you might need." Roy immediately corrected himself. He would not set Al's office on fire for this. He would set Al's trousers on fire—and Al would be in them.

"Er…Miss…Turlough. Ah…good to see you," he stammered. "I'm not…uhhh…not completely sure why Alphonse-"

She leaned in close. "—isn't he just the _sweetest_ fellah? I could just eat him up like a sugar cookie!"

Roy stepped back a fraction. She was invading his personal space and he feared it might carbonate his hormones, for all that he'd been committed to another man for over fifteen years. There was something _animal_ about this woman—like some demented candy-colored pantheress—who cut these hot, lazy eyes at him and every coo'ed syllable seemed dripping with obscene possibilities. _Havoc, buddy—you never stood a chance against this one. She's a subtle as a charging chimera. And what the hell is that perfume she's wearing?_ "Alphonse has always been…er..ah…a valued member of my staff…"

Her beestung lips turned down into a luscious pout. "Wassamatta, Mistah President? You look all nervous. You're startin' to _sweat_." Reaching into her cleavage she pulled out a lacy handkerchief and she gently blotted Roy's forehead. "I didn't come over this morning to make you all jittery. I gotta get you all…_relaxed_."

"I'm _fine_, Miss Turlough." Did that really come out an octave higher than Roy's normal voice?

"No," she contradicted coquettishly. "You're all…_stiff._" Roy glanced nervously down at his own crotch. _Traitor_, he thought to his penis. _Down, boy!_ "See, that's what Mistah Alphonse said. He was worried, 'cause that Samuelson is all smiles and handshakes in public. He does the glad-hand real good, ya know?" She shifted her weight forward and pressed herself lightly against him. "That's what you don't know, Mistah President. You're real smart and all, and you're really swell at your job—but you don't really know a damn thing about _people_."

Sweat prickled along his spine, and as soon as he could get away from this pink-lipped python of lust he would lock himself in the men's room and threaten his member with cold water, ice—even circumcision-for embarrassing him like this. _It must be chemicals. Hormones…pheromones, whatever. Like a cat in heat that other cats can smell for miles. _ "I…beg to differ…"

"I'm gonna get right to the point, Roy," she whispered. "You ain't a baby-kisser."

He blinked nervously. "Ah…wha..what?"

"You don't' walk into a room. You march in and take no prisoners. Oh," she amended, "it's not like you're not charming and all that. But you're all serious. Samuelson knows how to get people to like him. We gotta find your style. I want you to come into that debate tonight and make 'em love you. 'Cause if they love you, they'll lissen. Samuelson, they _like._ They lissen to him on the radio. He shows up to open new supermarkets and stores. He goes to movie premiers and the theater. _Everybody_ knows him. Heck, he even does commercial on the radio! Now," she was smiling up at him now, "what WE gotta do is change your style a little. Teach you the glad-hand game. I hear that Mistah Edward used to do that. That's how he got to be the 'alchemist of the people', right?"

Roy frowned, recalling when Edward had schemed to use himself as bait to lure out the enemy by thrusting himself in the public eye as the charming, boyish 'alchemist of the people', stealing headlines and dashing heroically around the city in a ridiculous manner that splashed his picture over front pages nationwide. "I'm going to have to make a fool of myself? Is that what you're saying, Miss Turlough?"

The blonde curls bobbed. "Goodness, no! Nothin' like that! But we gotta…I dunno…change the brand. Spruce you up. Warm you up. Everybody knows you're brave. Everybody knows you would die for this country…and the trouble is, they've known this for _ages._ They're _used_ to you. Samuelson has 'em shook up. So…we gotta do some…_shakin'_…of our own." To his horror, her hands darted over his buttons, so fast he didn't have a chance to protest. His uniform coat was open and she was tugging at his trousers. "Now…let's get you out of that stuffy ol' uniform…."

###

The idea was ridiculous. "That has to be the single most effective party-killer of all time."

By _that_, Kelley Winchell meant the exhibit of sepia-toned photographs that were now covered with white dust cloths in the private room of the gallery where her book release was going to be held tomorrow night. She shuddered, pulling her furs closer. Archer found it amusing that Kelley Winchell could co-author a book she had no intention of reading—_ever_. She had agreed to stand in the reception, greeting the press and posing for pictures, but she absolutely would not go into the gallery where prints from the book's photos were on display. No, she told herself, that was Archer's bailiwick, not hers.

_"It's a fill-in-the-blanks no brainer, Kel, "_ he had told her. _"You read my text and notes. You give it your spin—the punters love your writing style. Don't take it overboard. Then I edit into the story behind the photographs. We get this story of this young bunch of kids—fresh, you know? Wet behind the ears. One of them is top of the class. Mustang. Good-looking. Ambitious. Gets written up for fighting, sticking up for the underdog at school. Another classmate tries to get him written up for something that looks a lot like sodomy and fraternizing but he manages to get out of it. Then he gets ambitious and goes for the State Alchemy license, shooting fireballs and blowing things to hell. Presents himself to the army as a living weapon and the brass falls for it. Heads out to Ishbal during the Dahlia Campaign and he and Zolf Kimblee blow the place apart. Gets in a battle and he and his butt-buddy Hughes go murder their old school chum Heathcliff Arber. In the middle of this, a young rookie, a signal corps photographer named Donal Samuelson gets assigned to the campaign. He sees the slaughter, right? It's a total bloodbath. He hates it—even tries to get Mustang to stop using the alchemy to burn the cities, but it doesn't work. So he makes a vow that he's going to bring this story to daylight one day…and here's the evidence. Neat, huh?"_

Neat? How could _anyone_ use such a trivial word to describe those hideous images of charred people, broken buildings, sobbing refugees and a single terrifying image of a lone man, gloved hand upraised, coaxing a holocaust of fire with the snap of his fingers? That photograph—that chilling icon—that was what had given Kelley Winchell nightmares since that terrible afternoon when Frank Archer showed her his portfolio of rare war prints that he intended to make into a bestseller.

Now people were going to _pay_ to see those grisly images. They were going to sip champagne and listen to high-toned music and nibble on canapés and imported Drachman caviar and chitchat and press the flesh…and then they were going to walk back into that gallery and see those damned photographs and probably vomit all over their nicely polished shoes.

Images of a man's corpse, grinning in rictus, his burned body fused to the body of the dead cart horse he had fallen against. A blistered baby desperately trying to suck milk from a dead woman's breast. A man staggering for help, his ruined eyes burst in their sockets, the entire upper part of his head completely void of flesh. The first time she had flipped through this horror show of images she had to dash to the ladies' loo and had spattered her imported leather slingbacks with her luncheon. And worse, tucked in with all the hideous images were snaps of grinning soldiers, drinking and celebrating their victory-and the pale, soot-marred face of the Hero of Ishbal himself, his long flowing coat like the wings of a great carrion crow, flying like a shadow over the streets of the dead. A pretty boy soldier with the heart of a killer, knee deep in a river of mud and gore.

_Roy Mustang. _

If there was a god named Ishballa—and for once Kelley Winchell hoped there was—he would damn the soul of the Flame Alchemist to a hell beyond imagining where he would confront each of the thousand souls he had murdered through his unholy alchemy and suffer what they had suffered, right down to their last, pitiful breaths….

###

With all the stress over the book, the election, and now the pile of glass negatives that Al had ordered recovered from the old greenhouse, Alphonse was in great need of a good belly laugh these days.

He got one—at the President's expense.

If he lived a hundred years—and bearing his ancestry in mind, that seemed to be pretty likely—Alphonse Elric would never forget the screams and shouts coming from the Presidential Office. He bit his lower lip. He tried to mentally recite the periodic table of elements. He tried manfully to control himself but then there would be another surprisingly high pitched yelp of protest from Roy and Alphonse would lose control, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter only to have it escape out his nose in a disgraceful snort.

Sheska had already fled and Havoc was fast behind her, his ears flaming crimson with embarrassment. Breda alone stood guard, arms crossed, his face impassive.

"He can fend her off if she gets too-" Breda made a gesture that did not require much interpretation.

"I told her we needed to get him into civilian dress," Al insisted. "I didn't say he needed her help." Al had stepped out after breakfast to consult with the President's tailor—a wasp-tongued but impeccably dressed fellow named Carson who had thrown up his hands and cried 'about damn time!', dragging Al to several shops to procure what Carson had pronounced as 'comfortable clothing—not for _him_, darling—something that makes everyone else feel comfortable around him.' Several ensembles were assembled, paid for and transported by taxi to the Presidential office.

"Mr. Carson will come by to give him a once over before we leave for the debate," Al told Breda. "There's also a barber named Kyan who'll get Roy a haircut and a manicure—he also said something about 'neatening up' Roy's eyebrows, but I don't think he'll go for that." There was a loud crash and a shout that sounded like _'get your hands out of my shorts, ma'am!_'. "Guess I'd better go in there?" Al asked tentatively.

"Before the guards do, yeah," Breda agreed.

Before they could move, the double oak doors opened with a bang. "TAA-DAHHHHH! " Gladys Turlough shouted in triumph. "Don't he look fantastic?"

"Fantastic" was not an adjective that Alphonse would have used to describe another man, but even Breda grinned, gave his boss a thumbs-up. "Looking sharp, Sir!"

Instead of a formal suit, Carson had chosen simple dark wool trousers, a single breasted navy jacket that hinted ever so slightly of Roy's riding coat. _"Everyone knows he's a horseman,"_ Carson had suggested. _"His casual clothing should reflect that he's an active man, not some spoiled dandy that spends his days drinking brandy and playing chess."_ The shirt was open at the neck with a simple cravat, and he wore braces and no waistcoat. _"Casual and elegant. Relaxed, yet powerful. Samuelson will be wearing some dreary dark suit. They'll be expecting Mustang to dress up in the usual dreary cap and uniform. Let's throw them off guard."_

Roy looked smartly turned out and absolutely furious. "Alphonse," he said in a voice that was terrifyingly calm. "Did you _suggest_ to Miss Turlough that I am not capable of dressing myself?"

"He needed a little _push_ to get the idea," she beamed. "Okay, maybe I took the liberty—"

"—_several_ liberties, ma'am!"

"—but he looks so nice, I might want to steal him away for myself!"

The mental image of Edward Elric AND Riza Hawkeye racing to scratch Gladys Turlough's eyes out made the menfolk shudder. "Uhhhh….right," Alphonse stammered. "Mr. Kyan's going to give you a haircut and a manicure—"

"—I had a haircut yesterday, Al-"

'—a _better_ haircut-and then we can spend the rest of the afternoon-"

"-teachin' you how to give 'me the glad-hand-"

Roy headed straight for the window and flung it open. If he was lucky, he'd hit the bushes on the way down and he'd be able to out-run them, reaching the safety of his car before these lunatics-

They dragged him back. Breda locked the windows and escorted Mr. Kyan in, scissors at the ready. "I can take you all on," Roy threatened, lifting his hand as if ready to snap off a rain of fire inside his own office."

Al approached his old friend and laid his hands on Roy's shoulders. "You'd do it for your country, wouldn't you, soldier?"

"She grabbed my ass, Al."

The younger alchemist nodded. "Sacrifice is demanded by the leaders of men."

Dark eyes were wide with indignation. "She _pinched_ it."

"I'll see that you get a medal, sir." He snapped his fingers. "Miss Turlough? Mr. Kyan? Breda? I want to see a brand new man in three hours."

_"YES, SIR!"_

It was almost tea time when Ed was summoned in. "Doesn't he look scrumptious?"

Ed gave the Ice Cream Blonde a suspicious look, then saw the panic in his lover's eyes. Roy's virtue, Ed decided, was intact, but not without having put up one hell of a fight.

Mr. Kyan and Mr. Carson exchanged smirks. "Would you fuck him, sweetie?" Carson inquired archly.

After several thoughtful moments, Ed nodded. "Yeah. But then, " he qualified, "I've fucked him in the stable with horse shit on his boots."

Roy's left eyebrow lifted. "You flatter me." He rounded on the two stylists. "And my private life is none of your business."

"What he means," Gladys soothed, "is he loves you no matter what. So can we get someone who's, ya know, objective?"

Five minutes later, Owen Knox, Sebastian and Ruby were ushered in. "We're going to beat Samuelson at his game," Al explained. "We wanted to make Roy more—"

"—human?" Mr. Carlson suggested.

"Something like that," Al agreed. "Opinions?"

"His Excellency is properly turned out. His appearance is casual yet conservative. Wearing his hair swept down over the forehead gives him a less regimental appearance, much as he had in his younger days. His handkerchief is folded to perfection in the breast pocket. I can find no fault," said Sebastian.

"You almost look human," growled Doctor Knox.

"Whoohooo!" grinned Ruby.

Alphonse smiled broadly. "Gentlemen—Miss Turlough? I think we're ready for the debate."

###

"My job," Donal Samuelson had informed the crowd. "is to tell you the truth and scare you half to death—and then to _show_ you, point by point, why I have hope for Amestris. Why I believe, with all my heart, that if we work together, that we are on the precipice of a new era of freedom, prosperity and the rebirth of Amestris as the undisputed leader of the free world."

"My ass hurts," Havoc whispered to Breda in the audience. "And my ass is a pretty damn good barometer of a boring political speech."

"You're immune to him," Breda observed. "You're listening to what he's saying. You're missing _how_ he's saying it. That's what he gets right and the Boss gets wrong. The Boss is used to addressing soldiers, not Joe Blow and the man on the street."

"Isn't that what all that crazy stuff was about this afternoon?" Havoc wanted to know.

"Shhhhh—yeah. I guess it all depends on how well the Boss was listening."

He was good, Havoc had to admit. He was damned good. Samuelson oozed believability. There was sincerity in every line. His body language, pacing…all of it was spot on perfect. "Maybe a little _too_ perfect," Breda agreed. "He's out of his league. I think deep down he knows it and he's bluffing."

'Hate to play that son of a bitch at cards," Havoc admitted, "but then, he's never played Mustang…"

"…Amestris, we will always endure. We will always pull through. We will never give up. We are at the Great Crossroads, and together as one united people we will press on—press on against hopelessness, press on against the tyranny of the past, press on and rise above the last crumbled ruins of military dictatorship—and together we will greet the dawn of a new day. My friends, it is morning in Amestris…and I can't wait to see what promise this new day has in store for us all. Thank you," Samuelson bowed, "Madame Chairman. My thanks to you, ladies of the League of Women Voters, and to all the good people of Amestris. I yield the podium now to my esteemed opponent."

He glanced at the seat where his opponent should have occupied on the podium. It was empty.

The Madame Chairman of the League rose, looking worried. "Ladies and gentlemen…my apologies. It seems President Mustang is-"

"_Right here, Ma'am."_

A friendly voice lifted over the confused mumblings of the crowd. "I'm here, Ma'am." Roy Mustang rose from the middle of the crowd, where he had apparently been seated throughout Samuelson's speech. "Sorry for the confusion, " he beamed to the people around him. "Mr. Samuelson gave an excellent speech to the Amestrian people. And when you're president of a country it's very easy to forget that, first and foremost, you _are_ one of the people. There's just a little difference in your job description," there was a chuckle from the crowd, " and maybe you have an easier time getting a parking space downtown—oh, and when you want to go camping in the woods with your children you have a half-dozen big guys with concealed weapons sneaking around in the bushes when you need a moment of privacy since there's no indoor plumbing available." He strolled easily to the podium, bowing respectfully to each of the women on the committee. "And did I mention that you have to make campaign speeches? Terrifying thought, isn't it? And occasionally getting shot at," he touched his shoulder lightly. "I bet I know what you are all thinking tonight, listening to us speak and reading about the campaign in the papers, and watching all the newsreels. You're thinking," he stepped to the edge of the stage and smiled warmly at the crowd, "you're thinking _'you've got to be out of your mind to want to do this for a living!'_ And who knows, you could very well be right! Or maybe," his voice lowered into that range that could raise goosebumps on any woman and many a man, "maybe….it's because you've found something you love more than your own life—more than anything. You've found that you love your homeland…you love her and want to protect and nurture her so much that you are willing to do whatever you have to do—jump through any kind of hoops, even come up on stage and risk making a fool of yourself—if that's what it takes to show people how very, very much they mean to you—and to remind them that the guy in the big black car in the uniform with the shiny gold braid _is just one other Amestrian who loves his motherland._

"It's that simple. It really is _that_ simple." He sat down on the edge of the stage and spoke to every man and woman in the crowd, eye to eye, one at a time. "What were the options for serving your country back in the 1800's—back when some of us were kids? We were a military state, remember? If you wanted to serve, you joined the military. That was it—oh, unless you were a _woman_. Then they told you, "go home, raise a family and keep your mouth shut.' Let me tell you, as father of a grown daughter I _know_ what you ladies must have been thinking when you were told that. And as mothers it must have broken your hearts to send generation after generation to war after war.

"My esteemed opponent talks about corruption in the military regime—and he would be right…if he's talking about the past he would be right. I _know_ what it means to be one of those sons who wanted to serve his country and found himself sent off to kill his fellow man for reasons that made no sense whatsoever. I fought on the Eastern Front, and I am willing to bet that those men and women who served on the other fronts could agree with me. We were young and naïve and we followed orders. And in my case, I began to question them the day I found one of my best friends on the battlefield…and he shot me….and our mutual friend had to shoot him to save my life."

His voice was soft and mesmerizing now. "Does that make _sense_ to you? Someone-a people-that had nothing my country needed, had lived in peace with us for generations…one day those people became my enemies and yours. And you'd say, "Roy, they rose up and rebelled! They attacked first!'. And you'd be right-because someone from our military killed one of their children. And as a father…if it were my son or my daughter…I may not condone that…but I can understand where that anger comes from. And that's how it was from border to border, nation to nation—not always a child but there was some tipping point that pushed things to the breaking point and lo and behold, Amestris was at war _again._

"And on one spectacularly blood-soaked day, the day I faced my friend in battle, _I…woke…up_." Roy made an emphatic gesture.

The auditorium was silent.

"I said, 'no more'. I told my best friend, Brigadier General Maes Hughes, that I would do everything in my power to help stop this insanity.

"And…_we did_." His voice was barely a whisper but it carried to every corner of a room filled with men and women hanging onto his every word.

"WE did…the men and women who swore to protect this country and protect you, her people. Military…civilians…allies from beyond our borders who fought side by side with us…alchemists and housewives—" Edward and Alphonse grinned at each other, both thinking of Izumi. "—we worked together, not counting the cost because it was worth it. _YOU_ are worth it.

He let the thoughtful silence linger. "And now we have peace." He searched their faces. "And you have grown used to peace and prosperity. We are in the 20th century now and we have a sense of goodwill that is unprecedented in the history of this country. And the next step is democracy…placing the government into the hands of the people. It is your right and you are ready for it. Mr. Samuelson and his supporters believe that the only way the country can move forward is to dismiss the military from the government…and that means me. I am one of the last appointed government leaders in this nation. Yes…I am a general. Yes, I wear the uniform and follow the military code I was raised to follow, like my father and his father before him. Mr. Samuelson says you should not trust me. I can't make that call for you.

"But instead of making a campaign speech tonight…I want _you_ to do the talking. This isn't about me or Donal Samuelson. It's about _you_. You and your children and the children yet to come." He glanced at his watch. "Okay, I've been talking for ten minutes. We've got twenty more minutes. I'm going to be quiet now—I want you to talk to _me._ Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need. Tell me how I can help."

After a long silence, a factory worker stood up, cap in hand, and began to speak. He was followed by a teacher, a mechanic, an alchemist, a woman who had lost her job.

He sat on the edge of the stage, coat off, shirt sleeves now rolled up, and he listened. He asked questions. Nina and Maes darted back and forth with microphones so every speaker could be heard. When the unemployed woman began to weep, Nina hugged her and began making notes. When one man began to shout angrily, Roy let him speak, listening intensely to the man's frustrations.

When it was done, when the all to brief half hour was up, Roy bowed and quietly thanked them, the people of Amestris, slung on his coat and walked out into the cold with his family.

As they headed for the car that waited for them, Roy glanced worriedly at Edward. "Did it make a difference? Do you think they heard me?"

Ed paused and stooped to pick up something from the rain gutter along the curb. It was a Samuelson campaign flyer. It had been torn in half and discarded.

"You did to someone," he told his lover. "Somebody heard you tonight…."

….TO BE CONTINUED….


	22. Chapter 22

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 22: THAT WHICH DOES NOT DESTROY US…

BY The Binary Alchemist 2013

"Hey! Waitaminute!" Ed was about to shrug out of his shirt when he noticed a small bruise on his lover's backside. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Roy glanced over his shoulder, then grimaced. "What?" Innocence, feigned or otherwise, might divert Ed from the small bluish mark that stood out in stark relief against his ivory skin.

"You've got a bruise on your butt."

A dark brow lifted a fraction. "You should be more careful."

"That's not an automail bruise, and I sure as hell didn't see that when we were in the shower this morning."

"You pay that much attention to my ass? I'm flattered." A flash of smirk…yes, that might be enough to distract him…

Gold eyes narrowed. "She goosed you."

"Huh?"

"That dame Gladys. She grabbed your ass."

"Your deductive skills are impressive. You should work with Falman in investigations." There was no point in denying the evidence. "And I assure you," Roy sighed, " I _assure_ you I did _not_ grab back."

Edward wasn't angry. As a matter of fact, there was something downright wicked about the grin he offered the President. "Did she get you hard?"

"You're insane!"

A broad hand in the middle of his chest shoved him playfully back against the headboard. "Tell the truth, asshole." The grin turned hungry and determined as Edward, clad in nothing but an open dress shirt, tie undone and hanging loosely over his bare chest, climbed his way up Roy's supine body until his bare knees were locked around Roy's hips. "C'mon, Roy! You were getting off on all that attention, weren't you?" A hand reached down between the older man's thighs and _squeezed_. "Did you want to fuck her?"

"It's called the Gallant Reflex." All Roy's saliva had dried up and his face was turning an intriguing shade of crimson. Something headstrong and impatient was poking him in the groin and he squirmed as much as humanly possible with his hips trapped in that vise-like grip. "It was purely a biological reaction. "

"You admit it, She got you hard." His lover leaned in close and put his mouth to Roy's ear_. "I'll get you harder…"_

###

Davy Collins was making his final rounds of the Bradley house before turning in for the night. Mrs. Bradley always asked him to look in on Selim and he never minded. The young man was generally so gentle and tractable that he wasn't much trouble at all…

…except when he was. Those were very bad nights indeed.

Nobody wanted to drug Selim but there didn't seem to be much choice. One of the Central doctors—not one of the military doctors but a civilian—talked about some new treatment called 'electroconvulsive therapy'. A brief pulse of low electrical current could be administered to induce a mild seizure while the patient was sedated. "It will get rid of these episodes he's been having," the doctors assured Mrs. Bradley but she still wouldn't agree to it. Collins didn't agree either. As he had explained to the President earlier that day, "I'm sorry, Sir—but don't you think it's inhumane?"

Mustang had agreed. "There have been enough horrible things done to Selim Bradley. Tell Mrs. Bradley that if the doctors pressure her to give Selim any type of therapy she does not approve of to contact me immediately."

"There's something about alchemy that drives the poor fellow half –mad."

"Again, that is not surprising. I'm afraid," Mustang's tone became crisp and formal, "that I am not presently at liberty to give you any details. And since he had the most recent episode of terrors after a nurse visit I will arrange for military nurses and doctors to oversee his care from this point on. Did you get a good look at the woman who came the night of his last…_event_?"

"I'm sorry, Sir,"

"I expect you to be more observant in future."

"Yes, Sir."

In the end it was determined that a mild, herbal sedative was acceptable to all. Even Selim was consulted and agreed that he would not mind taking 'some soothing syrup to help you sleep'. A mixture of chamomile, valerian root, hops and catmint may not have tasted pleasant, but at least it was non-narcotic and would not have any dangerous side effects. Besides, Collins always had a spoonful of cinnamon honey at the ready to clear the nasty aftertaste away.

The syrup had done its work. The breathing from Selim's bedroom was gentle and steady and a night-light glowed softly so he would not become frightened if he awakened during the night. A bell-pull sash was close at hand and he knew to ring it if he needed Collins, not that he ever did now that he was taking the sedative.

Davy Collins paused outside Mrs. Bradley's room and called softly, "All well, Ma'am?"

He could almost hear her smile from the other side of the door. "I'm fine, dear. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, Ma'am. Sleep well, and ring if you need me."

He was stacking up a fresh pile of logs on the hearth when he heard the sound of footsteps muffled by the snow, a "thump!" and a "_goddamnit!" _that he had heard more than once when a certain younger man had turned his ankle tripping over the boots he has kicked aside in his eagerness to climb into bed and into the man that was waiting for him. He stuck his head out of the front door. "Are you all right?"

"Define 'all right'," called a voice from the shadows. "Last time I was here I got kicked out the front door, bruised my ribs, had a mild concussion—"

"—Maes, listen-"

"—AND, to add insult to injury, it's boring as fuck-all with you gone, and in spite of the aforementioned injuries I'm just idiot enough to come out here in the middle of the night and try to persuade you to _talk_ to me….because…because…_shit!"_ Something collided with the rose trellis. "All right, Collins!" It was somewhere between a whisper and a bellow. It sounded mad as hell and it took all of Sebastian's training to keep Davy from laughing. "Get your scrawny ass out here and _talk _to me, you dickhead! You don't just chuck me out and flush a lifetime of friendship down the crapper!"

A tall figure stumbled into the blade of light from the open doorway. The figure was hatless, coatless, but wore a scarf that Elycia had knitted for Davy knotted around his throat. The soft wings of pale hair that framed his face were dusted with snow. His lab jacket was torn at the sleeve—presumably from the rose trellis-and the motorcycle goggles shoved back on his head were fogged over—undoubtedly the reason he had collided with the birdbath. He had obviously parked his bike and sidecar up the street so that the engine's rumbling wouldn't give him away.

Maes was flushed and panting and scuffed and bleeding a bit from scratches on his cheek and if there had been even the slightest hesitation in Davy's mind about letting Maes Elric into the house it would have evaporated at the sight of his lover being ever at the ready to make an ass of himself in public to make a point….just like his legendary father.

And that was as close to romantic as an Elric was likely to get.

"Can I have my scarf back?"

"Hell no, and don't ask me again." Maes snatched it back testily. "After you buggered off to this place and _left_ me…AND then proceeded to kick me out the front door…I should think I deserve _something_ as a payback." He winced as Davy daubed antiseptic on his scratches. "I know you don't want me here—"

"Maes, that's not it—"

"—but I figured at this hour I wasn't likely to upset anyone—and I AM sorry, by the way. How the hell was I supposed to know Selim would react to alchemy like that?"

"You couldn't have known, dear. It's all right."

Both young men turned abruptly. Mrs. Bradley stood in the doorway in her dressing gown and slippers, a tea pot in one hand, a plate of cookies in the other. The genuine warmth in the old woman's smile assured Maes that she was not angry at him. "And I do hope you'll join us for breakfast."

Maes glanced at the gentle, accepting smile of the former First Lady of Amestris, then to the corner of his best friend's mouth, which was twitching almost imperceptively with barely suppressed laughter. He bit into a sugar cookie and frowned. "I bet you've forgotten how I like my morning toast. Very crispy and browned, butter on both sides and—"

_"Permission to smother our guest with a sofa cushion, Ma'am?"_

###

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded amused. "Well," there was a cynical chuckle in Samuelson's ear, "I suppose you could always get your old job back at the network. I hear the cinema critic is out on maternity leave."

"Very funny."

"You won't be laughing so hard on election day, Donal. Mustang just knocked you out without laying a glove on you." There was a deep intake of breath as if Archer was drawing on a cigarette. "You should be listening to your rival network. ABC Radio has an all night chat show, and Mustang couldn't pay for this kind of publicity."

"As I recall," Samuelson answered coolly, " you wrote the book on Mustang—you and that over-painted trollop you've teamed up with. I understand the book party at the gallery is a black-tie affair. See if you can get her to chisel off a few layers of makeup so she's presentable."

"I've got a more than enough material on you, my friend. Your bar tabs could rival the national debt, for starters. "

"And you're pure as the driven snow. Don't make me laugh." He sighed heavily. "None of us come this far with clean hands. What do you want?"

"It's not what I want, Donal. It's what you want. Mustang's head on a platter. You know what you have to do, who to call, and what to say to get them to listen to you." Another deep, smoky breath. "I've got the press coming out tomorrow night to see the pictures from Ishbal. All the suits and the uniforms and the big wigs. When the press sees those pictures in the gallery, there are going to be a lot of old men in Parliament and in the military who are not going to want to get splattered when the shit hits the fan. There is going to be a backlash and somebody needs to be the scapegoat. As they say," Archer laughed nastily, "I'll get you the story. You provide the war. Understood?"

###

After the debate Nina had headed over to Elycia's comfortable flat above Il Gattina. It always amused her that when she was little her great grandmother Pinako and old man Faust used these rooms as their trysting place. Granny had been a randy old soul at heart and Nina loved the stories of Pinako's "Pantheress of Resembool" days.

"Where's Maes?" Elycia handed Nina a cup of coffee laced with brandy and topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream.

"Gone to make it up with Davy, I expect." Nina might find love an annoying distraction but she heartily approved of her brother's choice in a companion. "He said something about kissing and making up if he had to break Davy's arm to do it. How Rockbell is that, I ask you? Went off on his bike. Hope he doesn't wrap it around the lamp post again." She glanced at Elycia who was pouring a double shot into her own mug and stirring the brew with such force it was splashing onto her saucer. "You don't like them together." Her friend made a noncommittal shrug. "Leesie…might as well let that one pass," Nina sighed. "My brother—"

"—could be with anyone…man or woman—"

"—they've been friends almost all Maes' life. Who knew it would turn out like this?" Nina took the cup and saucer out of Elycia's hands. "But it has. Time to move on. Don't end up like Aunt Riza or my mom."

Elycia looked over at her companion. "What's up with Winry?"

"Uncle Pitt is sleeping at the clinic these days, and I don't think Uncle Alphonse is going back anytime soon."

"Oh, no! Are they—"

"—cooling things down a bit, " Nina nodded. "Mom's been a little overbearing these days. Probably a reaction to Granny passing, but it's getting on everybody's nerves. She was all over Maes to move back home and come work for the automail clinic. She's got a half a dozen village girls on a short list of prospective daughter-in-laws. And she was telling me to hurry up and finish in medicine so I can partner with Uncle Pitt. Yes, she's got the whole scenario nicely planned out for my brother and me and it's not on, Leesie. It's not on. "

"You're still planning to finish in medicine, right?"

Nina looked thoughtful. "I might do—but all night I've been thinking…you heard Poppy on the radio?" Elycia nodded. Nina's fixed her gaze on the flames cracking cheerfully on the hearth. "I watched him up on that stage—I listened to all those people….Leesie, if you're a doctor, you can heal one person at a time. But think about Poppy…he can do so much good for so many…and it's _important_ to him. It's the most important thing in the world, even more than Daddy and me and Maes. We've talked about it a lot, how all he ever wanted to do was take care of Ametris and he made out the best career path to follow to accomplish that. Even if he loses the election, it won't stop him. Before we came along, all he wanted to do was be a good father to the people—to undo the damage, to stop the wars, to educate and improve the economy."

Elycia recognized the expression on her best friend's face. Some time—at some point during the course of this evening, Nina Elric had finally made up her mind over what to do with her tremendous intellect and drive and determination. She patted Nina's arm. "You know," she said softly, "you're going to need people you can depend on to stand by you, To help you make it wherever you're going. Mom and I will be there for you, okay?"

The green eyes of Nina Elric were steady and clear. She nodded, smiling a little. "Every Mustang needs a Hughes."

"And, " Elycia touched her cup to Nina's, "Every Hughes needs a Mustang."

_"Mustang-Elric,"_ Nina corrected with a smile.

###

"You know why my dad doesn't practice alchemy?"

A lean hand stretched down to stroke the tousled head in his lap, one cheek resting on the pale, faded bullet scar Collins had gotten saving the son of a perfect stranger on the day that changed his life. "Doesn't? Or can't?"

"Exactly." Maes nuzzled the scar thoughtfully. "I don't know all the details, but when Dad and Uncle Alphonse were kids they messed around with alchemy and something went wrong. Dad got hurt—that's how he lost his leg and arm. Uncle Al got so messed up he had to hide in armor for years. I always guessed Auntie Mai and her people set him right, 'cause I know she helped Dad get his arm back, although I'll be damned if I know how. But that was the end of it for the Fullmetal Alchemist."

"How old was he?"

"Sixteen, I think. And you know what else? I think it's probably all in his head."

"In his head? You mean you think it's psychosomatic?"

"Sure!" Maes reached over and sipped from the glass of wine they shared. "Alchemists have a sort of..well, they call it a Gateway…it's inside your mind. You open that Gate in your mind to use alchemy."

"Sounds too hard for me."

"Well it wasn't too hard for me or my sister. I've been doing it since I was five or six. It's not like that Gateway could be given up or go away or close forever, is it? I think Dad just doesn't want to go there because of how Uncle Al got hurt." He looked thoughtful. "That's what made me think of Selim."

Collins looked puzzled. "What are you getting at?"

"Well, he throws those fits because something out of the blue sets him off, right?"

"More or less."

"Right! Then maybe if we find out what it is and Selim faces it and gets _through_ facing it, he'll get well. That's better than going through life all drugged up, right? Maybe he's simple minded because he's spent his whole life shutting something back. He's not damaged, is he? He's not got any sort of retardation or birth injury?" Collins shook his head. "Okay. I know you can't say anything, but I can. I'll talk to Mrs. Bradley. I can't believe she wants Selim to spend his life doped up or in some madhouse. Because," Maes sat up and smoothed his hair out of his eyes, "I don't think Selim Bradley is slow, any more than I think my dad can't do alchemy anymore. Dad won't even discuss it, but maybe Selim….."

His lover looked doubtful. "Maes, you could be wrong. There are some things in life we just can't get over."

"You know what the Milos say?" Maes slapped Collin's naked thigh for emphasis, "'That which does not destroy us can only make us strong in the end'

###

Edward Elric could not transmute the brass headboard but the sashes that tied up their respective bath robes would do in a pinch. "Can't move?" Roy shook his head. "Good. You and I are going to have a little chat about the Ice Cream Blonde. Comfy?"

"Not exactly," Roy grunted. "I'm getting a cramp in my leg." Not surprising, since both ankles were tied to the bedpost behind him, as well as his wrists, which were behind his head.

"Tough shit." Ed admired his handiwork. Not that Roy hadn't dared him to do it and cooperated willingly. "Now then, about Gladys Turlough. Aunt Chris says she's a one-woman sporting event—The Amestrian Open. Now,' he rummaged in the night stand and removed a corked bottle that had been imported from a certain dealer in the Ishballan _souks_—the same man who had sold Roy Mustang a book of erotic desert poetry many years ago. It was labeled 'Oil of the Moon". The first time Roy had used it on Ed had been on a wild night before Ed left for Drachma when they had shared a double saddle and ridden together under the stars. They had saved the bottle for special occasions. This was one of them.

Ed held up the bottle and Roy swallowed hard, nodding, his face flushing as deeply as the cock that twitched impatiently on his belly. "I don't care if you fuck her. I really don't give a damn." He carefully removed the stopper and sniffed. It smelled cool, but felt warm when rubbed on the skin, growing hot if blown upon. "I'm absolutely serious. You want to fuck Gladys Turlough or any woman, for that matter. Be my guest. You wanna know _why_?"

"I have no idea."

"Because they can't give you _this." _An oiled finger slid up to the knuckled and _stroked_. Roy's eyes rolled back in his head. The finger curled. Just one single finger, and it moved in and out and circled with a purpose. "They don't know you…they never will. They never did, all that time when you were fucking your way up the chain of command, getting all that information from the lovers of those other officers." The finger withdrew and Ed leaned in closer. "You had your fun. You don't have anything against women." The bottle tipped again into the palm of Edward's hand. "You like fucking them. You enjoyed it back in those days, didn't you?"

"Y..yesssss"

"Of course you did. It felt good. However," the voice became a seductive whisper as Edward climbed up his lover's body, "there's a difference between what feels…_good_…and satisfying…and then there's what can…drive…you…out..of…your…goddamn…_mind. You_ taught me that. You taught me that first time in the hospital…_remember?"_

He _pushed_. It _burned_. Roy hissed. Ed was rubbing against him from the outside, from just inside, withdrawing…_teasing_. "Of course," he continued, "there are all kinds of ways to make it work. The way I make it work when you're half a world away from me. I have all those wonderful little…_toys_—"

"_AGHHH!"_

_ "_—to play with. Gladys is pretty smart. There's no telling what she did to Havoc. I'm sure she's got one of those toys for her girlfriends. Maybe she can read you. Maybe she would rub up against you and tell you what she could do to make it unforgettable…" He pushed again, barely breaching, circling, spreading the heat and slickness. "There's no telling what she's got to play with . And it might get you off for an afternoon or two." The burning gold eyes became enormous.

_"I can get you off for a lifetime. And I will."_

His wrists were instantly freed, hands moving up to caress, to pull that driving body down into Roy's embrace. Pale thighs strained and shook as Edward spread them wider, leaning back, giving Roy an unobstructed view of everything he ever wanted and no woman could ever give him. "Look at me…look at me going into you." Ed was at the edge of sanity. He was the taker being taken, helpless because the man under him owned him in every way that mattered. Ed couldn't take his eyes off his own cock, darkly flushed and swollen to bursting, gliding slickly in and out of his lover. "That woman could do this to you if you wanted—but you don't, do you?"

_"Never."_

"Right…because,,_ahh…ohhhgodddd…SHIT!…b-because…if she did it…you couldn't feel her heartbeat inside you…like I feel it when you f…fu..fuckme…so deep…."_

"…like I feel you right _now…"_

His hair stuck to his shoulders and chest. He was panting furiously, his balls growing tight. His voice was a hoarse whisper now. "I've been tempted…oh _fuck_ have I been tempted when I'm gone…when I've gotta fuck…_just gotta fuck_…anyone…anything…feel like I'm gonna die I'm so alone…and I don't…I _caaaa…aan't…can't…_I get the book…I look at you…nothin' comes close…_"_

_ "…better than any goddamn woman…better than Hughes…" _Roy growled at him, yanking him close and biting down hard on a scarred shoulder.. "Oh, _fuck_ yes…"

Edward abruptly pulled back, out and his hand yanked at the sashes, freeing Roy's ankles. Crawling up frantically, he spread himself with both hands and sank down hard and deep, a low groan slipping out of him as Roy slammed up to meet him.

Lips that were gnawed half bloody pressed against Roy's ear. _"They don't love me."_

It was too damn much to bear. The exquisite torment of being filled to the bursting, the lingering heat of the oil, the sudden bliss of Edward straddling his hips, riding him with his wet hair whipping across his face and down his back, a wet cock straining against his belly. Roy caught Edward in his hands and their fingers laced together as Edward rocked down hard and _squeezed, _as if he wanted to take the whole of Roy Mustang, body and soul, inside himself and to _keep him there_, deep, up under his heart, where nobody could ever separate them again.

They were rooted together. Edward's eyes had gone from slits of gold to wide open and strangely wet. The look he gave his lover told Roy everything he needed to know about being _naked_ with another person—in the truest sense of the word.

_"I love you."_

He said it once. He said it twice. He said it, his eyes meeting Roy's. He whispered it. He moaned it as he filled his lover's clenched fist, pearly droplets spattering an ivory chest, He panted it as his hips were bruised by scarred hands that drove him down and down again and he felt that hot gush pulsing inside him. He heard his own admission gasped in his own ears, against his own skin, into his own open mouth as their tongues collided.

Side by side, they rested, fingers lightly entwined, laughing a little as they caught their breaths.

"One more thing."

"Huh?"

"If she touches your dick, she's _dead."_

…TO BE CONTINUED…


	23. Chapter 23

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 23: THE MATTER OF PRIDE

By The Binary Alchemist, 2013

There were worse ways to wake up in the morning than the teasing scratch of morning stubble along one's belly and thighs, accompanied by the tickle of warm breath and slick delights of Roy Mustang's tongue….worse, yes.

None _better._

"So….that fucking book is coming out this morning. Planning to set fire to any bookshops before breakfast?" Ed asked as they showered and shaved at their twin bathroom sinks.

"Actually," Roy slapped on a bit of exotic cologne and admired himself after making sure his teeth were properly flossed, "We have a fitting for our wedding suits, and we need to drag Maes out of whatever bed he's occupying and bring him along. I wonder if the tailor can possibly bear three such outstanding specimens of masculine charisma." He glanced at Ed. "Well, two, perhaps."

_THHHAAAWACCCKKK!_ A wet towel, aimed with all deliberate malice, popped Mustang on the rump, leaving a red mark that complimented the bruise Gladys Turlough had left on his opposite nether cheek.

"Like it? Now you've got a matched set," Ed crowed victoriously. "And," he threatened, snapping the wet towel for emphasis, "if she kisses it better—"

"—she's have to shove you out of the way."

"Only if I'm in the midst of _shoving…_" Ed's hand slid over the reddened mark with a lingering caress.

"Shove me and you're likely to get _shoved_ back. _Repeatedly_. On the presidential desktop."

"How about the bathroom counter?"

"How about _now?"_

_ "AH-hemmm hemmmmmm mmmm?"_

Sebastian. Damn. "If nobody's bombing Central," Roy bellowed, grabbing at his lover's hips, "it can wait."

"It's _Collins_, Your Excellency," the butler informed him. "Master Maes is in need of assistance at the Bradley house. Immediate assistance, from you, Professor Elric or Master Alphonse, specifically." There was a pause. "Confidentially, _Sir_…I'd say it was a…_matter of Pride."_

###

His lab coat was neatly folded, the tear from the rose trellis neatly mended. Maes' boots were polished, trousers hung up and his shirt had been touched up with an iron. "Damn perfectionist," the young man muttered, half irritated by his best friend's compulsive neatness and half aroused and delighted to be back in Davy's bed again.

The clock in the hall downstairs softly chimed six, and since the butler's quarters were on the first level he could hear the muffled sounds of the small band of servants receiving orders from Davy—correction: at this hour he was now _Collins_, butler and majordomo for the Bradley estate. There were more servants than there were Bradleys, but that was hardly the point. Mrs. Bradley had been trying to manage on her own for far too long. Far as Maes could tell, Davy's skilled management had taken a great deal of stress off Mrs. Bradley's mind and according to Uncle Roy she seemed far less absent-minded than she had been months ago. "It's all well that he's doing for her and Selim," he muttered to the wallpaper. "That's good…but I want him home. That's what comes of being Sebastian's fair haired boy, I guess."

A fresh toothbrush, a safety razor with a fresh blade and clean towels were laid out for him in the small private bathroom. No sense coming to breakfast all stubbly with butler on his breath, Maes reasoned, and hastened to make himself presentable.

There was nothing to tie his hair up with but he was at least combed out, although it took some effort to manage the snarls he inevitably got in his hair from thrashing his head on the pillows if his lover chose to climb up for a hard ride. Last night had been remarkable indeed and Maes had the tangles in his hair to prove it.

He was halfway up the hall to the dining room when the sound of Selim's voice made him hesitate. _What if…?_ The last thing he wanted to do was send Selim Bradley off the deep end into another fit. Mrs. Bradley had invited in to breakfast, yes…surely she understood the risks, didn't she? Maybe he should—

_"Maes? Dear, is that you?"_

Damn, too late. Drawing a deep breath, the tall young man entered the dining room. Davy-no, _Collins_!—Collins was pouring coffee for Mrs. Bradley and Selim was digging in to a bowl of oatmeal with what smelled like baked cinnamon apples, just like Collins had made back home at Rose Hill. "G..good morning, Ma'am!" he boomed out in a voice that sounded too loud to him and way too cheerful. "Good morning, Selim! It's good to see you!"

The oatmeal bowl crashed to the floor. _"FAAAAAATHERRRRRR! NO! NOOOO! FAAAAAAAAATHEERRRRRRR!"_

Mrs. Bradley went white. Collins bent immediately to steady her.

Maes, on the other hand marched straight up to Selim Bradley. He was shocked. And he was mad as hell. What the fuck was going on with Selim? Maes had never laid a hand on him, never hurt him and the moment the older man had seen Maes Elric he had gone absolutely _bugfuck._

_Hysterics,_ Maes recognized. _He's hysterical. _ Selim had leapt up from his chair, cringing, backing up against the fireplace, eyes wide and wild. It was as if whatever intelligence the older man possessed had been switched off. "_NOOOOOOOO!"_

Maes did not back away. He was the son of Edward Elric and the great grandson of Pinako Rockbell. He had younger step-brothers and sisters back in Resembool that occasionally attempted to manipulate their mother by throwing tantrums. When Sara was little she would literally scream until she threw up and wet herself. Maes once tried to coddle her but Pinako would have none of that. "Don't encourage it, or she'll keep on doing it." Seeing Pinako's point, Maes instead cheerfully asked Sara if she knew how to make gingerbread pancakes. "I've never had gingerbread pancakes," he told the little girl wistfully. "I would _really_ love a nice, fluffy stack of gingerbread pancakes. Do you think," his arm slid around her shaking shoulders, "you could figure out how to make me some?" It had worked. Sara was completely distracted from her screaming fit and every other time she'd gotten herself worked up her big brother had artfully distracted her.

As Maes moved closer, he couldn't be certain if Selim was going to faint or try to attack him. The fire poker was near to hand, and if he had to Maes was prepared to use alchemy to protect himself. Nina had cast Maes' array into a heavy silver signet ring that he often wore on his watch chain, since jewelry could be a hazard in his laboratory. Maes had slipped it on before coming down for breakfast just in case of any possible emergency.

Selim began to shriek, and there was the sudden, rank smell as if he'd fouled himself in terror. _Sheesh, am I THAT scary? And who the hell is 'Father'? Is he calling for the old Fuhrer?_

"_Selim._ Selim?" They were eye to eye now. "Hey, buddy…_snap out of it."_

Nobody moved. Maes held the older man's gaze and kept his voice cheerful and calm. "Seriously, man….everything's fine. Snap out of it."

Selim was hyperventilating and the front of his trousers darkened as he lost control of his bladder. "_Fatherfatherfatherfather…!" _ he babbled. He swayed as if he was about to fall.

Maes slapped him.

It wasn't enough to hurt, just enough to shock. Then he caught Selim by both shoulders and shook him very gently. "Selim…_Selim._ Look…I don't know what or who you're scared of, but there's no 'Father' here. It's me, and your mom and Collins. Nobody here would ever hurt you. You're making yourself sick. Pull yourself together."

There was a tiny, frightened sound from Mrs. Bradley. Maes heard his lover's voice, calm and confident: _"Trust him, Ma'am_. _Trust Maes."_ She did not move her eyes away from Selim but she reached up and patted his arm with trembling hands. "_Yes."_

_"Selim."_ The large hands, scarred from dozens of lab accidents, were now massaging Selim's shoulders. "I'm not 'Father'. I'm your friend. You know what friends are? Friends are people who listen when you're scared. You talk it out and they help you and the bad feelings go away. Now," he was smiling now, "I bet you didn't know that I make THE most a_mazing_ gingerbread pancakes in the whole wide world, did you?" Selim didn't answer. "Well, I do! You can ask Nina. You can ask Elycia. Even Collins says they're the best. And since you're outta oatmeal, buddy, what say Mom and I go mix up some batter while Collins gets you cleaned up and I'll teach you how to flip pancakes. Sound like a good deal? We'll make the world's biggest stack of gingerbread pancakes and all of us will sit down and have a feast—and then Collins will make some hot chocolate and then we're gonna talk about what's scaring you-_and we're gonna make it all right._ Does that sound like a plan to you, buddy?"

It was not until the upstairs bathroom door closed that Maes slumped against the mantle, shaking violently. "Oh fuck," he whispered. "Oh, fuck….oh _fuck_…." Remembering where he was, he offered an apology to Mrs. Bradley. "I'm just…I've never…"

She kissed his cheek. "You were wonderful and brave, my dear boy!"

"Yeah, whatever." His eyes were damp and he grabbed Mrs. Bradley's coffee mug and took a deep swallow. "Do you know how to make gingerbread pancakes? 'Cause fuck me if I have a clue."

She laid her hand on his cheek. "No, Maes…but I _do_ know what the Father was…and so do Edward and Alphonse and Roy Mustang."

###

"I'd like to transmute that trollop into a _toilet seat!"_

"Nina!"

"I mean it." Nina Elric was staring through the window of the bookshop with eyes that were so cold and calculating that Elycia was feeling more than a little alarmed.

"Think of your new career," Elycia warned. "You want to serve the public and run for a seat in Parliament? I don't think you can do that if you've got a criminal record. And you'll get one for sure if you go in there."

"I want to get my hands on that book-and I want to hear what that…that…_thing_…has to say about my Poppy and your dad and…and…"

"—annnnnd…let's go get some coffee and some cinnamon rolls. They're hot out of the oven right now." Elycia tugged at her friend's arm but Nina wouldn't budge. "Nina…honey…if I thought you could go in there and stay calm…but you're not yourself."

Nina spun on her heels and glared up at Elycia. "She went after Uncle Maes too. How can _you_ be so calm?"

"Because…if I thought for one minute that you smacking her with a handbag full of hardcover laboratory manuals would make a difference for the better, I'd whack her myself. But," she sighed, "it won't…and I really don't think Daddy or Uncle Roy would want us to fall to that level."

_"You're right."_

The young women turned around. Riza Hawkeye was standing behind them. So was Alphonse Elric. "I was expecting to find you and your brother here," Al told them, "and the Colonel and I thought it would be good to—"

"-keep us from turning Kelley Winchell into a toilet seat?" Nina suggested with sweet malice.

"-keep you from doing anything that would make matters worse." Alphonse was kind but firm. "So, we are going in that bookstore—since you're obviously hell bent on it and I can't order a grown woman around. You are going in and Colonel Hawkeye and I will be right at your side and you will show your usual grace and maturity and I am sure _you will make me proud of you. _"

Daddy might yell and curse and Poppy might indulge…but when it came to laying down the law there was no getting around her Uncle Alphonse. Nina nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. And when you're satisfied, we will get the hell out of here and after a big breakfast the Colonel and I will take you ladies out to the dressmakers. We need to find something perfect for you to wear to the wedding. The gentlemen are being fitted this morning too. I figured we might all go out to lunch this afternoon and then-"

He was talking to empty air. The ladies had already left him behind.

"So…um….how did you two start to write together?" A woman asked from the front row.

Kelley Winchell _preened_. "Well! My _former_ publisher—and my lawyers have asked me not to mention them by name…but _we_ all know who I'm taking about, riiiiiight?" She looked around at her audience. "Anyway, they were just _dragging_ their feet getting _Fire and Vice_ to press…and they had the _nerve_ to tell me that there was 'something wrong' with the print rollers that would put the ink on the pages. Now, _honestly_! Doesn't that make you wonder? And I said to myself 'hmmmmmm? Maybe they deliberately-" there was a _harummmph!_ from the sidelines and a man in a dark suit shook his head imperceptively. "Wellll…anyway…they _told_ me they couldn't print _Fire and Vice_…but they managed to print out that silly children's book, didn't they?" She tittered, her tight-jawed smile barely concealing her anger over _Buckety-Buckety The Big Brown Bear Has Tea With Wibbles The Wolf. _ The man in the dark suit threw Winchell another cautioning look. "Soooo….since _Fire and Vice_ obviously wasn't coming out, Mr. Archer and I decided to collaborate. He had the pictures from the war. I had the story. The rest is history…or certainly _will_ be, once you've bought it and read it and seen for yourself what _awful_ things were done during the Ishballan war!"

Between one sentence and another, Nina Elric's blood drained out of her face and she let out a soft hiss of breath as if she'd been punched in the belly by an unseen hand.

_Something wrong with the print rollers…makes you wonder…deliberate?…Fire and Vice wasn't coming out…something wrong with the print rollers…deliberate…_

"-hard to look at, maybe. But…it's _history,_ isn't it? And it's so _relevant_ to what's been going on here in Central during the current President's rule-"

_Deliberate…something wrong…deliberate…._

"—oh, god…that's terrible!"

"—I can't…don't look…"

"—the _baby_! He burned a _baby-"_

Photographic slides projected by a Magic Lantern. A city in flames. Row upon row of soldiers. The corpse of a burned child beside the charred ruins of its dead mother.

People were rumbling…crying…voices becoming an angry buzz in her ears…

Above the furor was the hateful voice of Kelley Winchell. "Never forget," she intoned sanctimoniously. "_We must never, ever forget-"_

She was out in the cool air, Her knees were not going to hold her up much longer. Riza Hawkeye had guessed that, seeing how pale Nina had become, and helped her outside as the customers inside sobbed and whispered and argued and lined up to have their books signed by Kelley Winchell, who never noticed the young woman's anguish.

"Nina?" Alphonse looked alarmed. "Are you all right?"

_"It's my fault."_

Elycia blotted her friend's damp face with her handkerchief. "Honey, it's not…it's not. You're just upset. You couldn't help it-"

They didn't understand. "It's my fault," she confessed. "I told Maes to damage the print rollers with alchemy. It was my idea. I put him up to this. If I had just kept my mouth shut-" she gestured towards the mob in the bookstore, the women wiping tears from their faces, the angry men. "If I had just stayed out of it…that book..._those pictures_ would never have seen the light of day. _It's all my fault!"_

###

Selim Bradley had a big stack of gingerbread pancakes. He had a walk with his mother and Collins. He came home for a nap before lunch.

As he slept, Edward Elric told his son the truth about Truth—and a good many other things to his son. Mrs. Bradley sat with them, nodding in agreement. Finally she pulled out a photograph of a very, very tiny creature, swaddled in the middle of a jacket with the Flamel cross on the back.

Maes excused himself, He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a large shot of brandy without asking his hostess' permission. He downed it in a single gulp. He sat down beside his father and it took him nearly five minutes to find the right words for the moment.

"So…it's all our fault. That's right, isn't it, Dad? Grandpa Hohenheim…he let that…_thing_…out of the flask. It was made from his blood-_our_ blood. It killed everybody and looked like Grandpa and…._HE_ made Selim." He drew a slow breath. "That's why he's messed up, right?"

Ed nodded. "Far as I can guess, the Father put the Philosopher's Stone into the blood of a pregnant woman…and made…Pride."

"And when you fought him—"

'—he became…what he had been," Mrs. Bradley concurred.

"A viable fetus," Ed sighed heavily. "What was I to do, son? I wasn't going to kill him! It wasn't his fault. After he lost his power he was just…."

"He was just Selim," Mrs. Bradley finished. She smiled. "And Selim needed to be loved. I was glad to take him back, glad to call him my son."

"Tell him the truth." Roy's voice on the other end of the line was strangely calm. "In as much as you think he can understand it. Make certain he doesn't get the impression that it was his fault."

Ed whistled. "_Damn_. Are you sure about this?"

There was a weary sigh from his lover. "We're finally at the tipping point, Ed. It's gone too far. He's got vague memories and fears about The Father. He's more at risk than ever. I don't want to use an Executive Order but I _will_ if he becomes a danger to others. And that is pretty much up to you, our son and Mrs. Bradley."

Ed sighed. "Shit, I was afraid you were going to say that-'cause Mrs. Bradley said the same damn thing too. I just…hell, I don't know how…"

Maes tapped him on the shoulder. "Dad? I think I've got an idea…"

"All right, Selim," Maes began carefully. "You get really scared sometimes. We found out why and Dad and I are going to tell you a little story." The younger Elric held up a pair of paper masks he'd transmuted from old newspapers. One was the face of a smiling boy with dark hair and eyes like Selim Bradley. One was the face of a frowning bear that looked suspiciously like a very pissed off Buckety-Buckety.

Ed cleared his throat nervously and glanced at Mrs. Bradley. She nodded. He began…

"_Once upon a time, there was a very, very good little boy." _ On cue, Maes put on the little boy mask. "_He was a good kid. A very good kid. And in the same village there was a very bad man named The Father. The Father was just no good. He wanted to make everybody do what he wanted and he didn't care if they were happy, or if he was right or wrong. The Father was very, very bad and he wanted to be a bully. And this is how he did it."_

Maes, in the mask, got up and began to stroll around the room, pretending to play with a ball. Ed got up and confronted him. _"The Father said, "Little boy, go into the village and tell the people to do everything I want them to."_

Maes shook his head. "I won't. Mommy wouldn't like it and it would make people sad."

"_And the Father said, 'I don't care. You will tell everybody to do as I say or I will turn you into a big, growwwwwwly monster and they will be so scared of your biiiiig growwwlllll that they will do anything you say.'"_

"No" said Maes in the Selim mask. "I'm a good boy. I will never hurt anyone."

_'And the bad, bad Father-Man gave the good little boy a magic red stone. When the good boy touched the stone, it changed him on the outside so he looked just like this…"_

Maes pulled the bear mask over the little boy mask. "You see, Selim," Maes told him, "underneath the bear face the little boy was still there, just as good as he ever was. Do you see that?"

Facinated, Selim Bradley nodded. "Okay," Ed grinned. "Let me tell you what happened next…"

"_For a very, very long time, the scary, growwwwwwllly monster would tip-toe around the village and jump out and scare people. And when he did he'd go—"_

_ "RARRRHHHHHHHRHHHHH!" _bellowed Maes.

Ed feigned terror. "A monster! A Monster! Don't eat me! Ooohhh, you're scaring me!"

"Will you do what the Father tells you?" Maes rumbled.

"Oh! Oh yes! " Ed whined. "I'll do whatever Father tells me."

"_And deep, deep inside, the little boy had been playing like he was a monster for so long he completely forgot that he was a good little boy. But one day a boy came to the village. He was an alchemist and when he looked at the biiiiig growling monster he guessed that there was a very good little boy hiding under the monster mask. He decided to set the little boy free. So he told the monster 'stop being a meanie!' and he chased the monster all over the village…"_

It was the performance of a lifetime. Ed chased Maes all around the room like a comical version of hide and seek and Selim was laughing now. Finally Ed snuck up behind Maes and tapped him on the shoulder. "GOTCHA!" Ed whooped and pulled off the bear mask, showing Maes with the little boy mask once again."

"Hey! Well what do you know? I'm _not_ a monster!" Maes shouted triumphantly. "I'm a good boy again!"

"_And the good little boy and the boy alchemist chased the Father around and around and around and you know what? The Father ran so fast that he turned to dust in front of the people of the village. The alchemist and the people in the village smashed that red stone and when they did that the bad Father was no more." _Ed took Maes by the hand and led him to Mrs. Bradley. "_And the sweet Good Mother saw the good little boy and she said, 'I love you and I will always love you and take care of you all the days of your life'._ And," he smiled at Selim, "that is the true story of how you came to be with your mom. That bad, bad Father-Man made you into a growwwwwwwwly monster—and the good alchemist help you get free. Now you're just a good person, Selim. And," he touched Selim's forehead, "this little mark, right here, is where the monster mask was stuck on. That mask is _broken,_ kid. You will _never_ turn into a monster again—and nobody will EVER be able to trick you or talk you into being scary…._right?"_

"That's why you get so scared, Selim," Mrs. Bradley added. "You didn't remember this story and you didn't understand…but you do now, don't you, son?"

Selim thought long and hard. Everybody was smiling at him. He wasn't bad. He _wasn't._ "I _think_ so," he answered slowly.

"You'll never hurt anybody and nobody will ever hurt you," Maes said, patting the older boy on the shoulder. "In fact, you'll get strong and well and chase monsters away, _won't you? _If you will…I promise I'll get Collins to make you gingerbread pancakes every day. Okay?"

"I promise!"

"The monsters will never come back?"

"I promise!"

Maes hugged Selim. Mrs. Bradley hugged him. Ed ruffled his hair and Collins laid his hand on his heart and promised to make gingerbread pancakes to keep the monsters away. "Blueberry will work too…and so will eating your vegetables," he added with a smile.

Twenty minutes later, Ed held the phone in a sweaty, shaking hand as he dialed Roy. "Damn," he told his lover, "Our kid is fucking _awesome_. May have just saved the godddamn world and the life of Selim Bradley with a fairy tale and a plate of goddamn pancakes…"

…..TO BE CONTINUED…


	24. Chapter 24

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 24 "THE COFFEE ALWAYS SUCKS AFTER 6:45 A.M."

By The Binary Alchemist, 2013

At five-fifteen in the morning, the steam rising up from the manhole covers in the back alleys of Central City makes the pre-dawn world hazy and soft edged. It is a good time of day not to be noticed if you hunch your shoulders, fan up the collar of your overcoat and don't hold anyone else's gaze for more than a few seconds..

_Taking the pulse of the city_. That was what Alphonse called it. Havoc had always referred to it as _doing a recce._ If you asked Ed what the hell he was doing out in the predawn chill, he'd have told you he was _finding shit out_—blunt, but no less effective.

Roy knew his lover was 'out and about', as the President called it. The day before had been harrowing, what with the issue of Selim Bradley and the release of Kelly Winchell's book on the Ishballan Massacre and the exhibit of Donal Samuelson's battlefield photos. The First Family had turned off the radio, laid the evening papers aside and spent the evening at home together, having a quiet supper and then a lively game of Screw Your Neighbor, a card game the Elric brothers had learned from Havoc when they were in their teens. It involved cheating, lying, a great deal of noise and playful squabbling and the leveling of dire penalties, since it was always played for forfeits. After a couple of glasses of wine even Gracia got into the spirit, and after winning the evening's first round Roy ended up with Krimson Kiss polish on his toenails, even though he offered her all the cash in his pockets to get out of his forfeit. Davy Collins had been given the evening off after the nerve-wracking day at the Bradley estate, and Edward did not miss the way Elycia's eyes lingered on the young butler's face, darting away swiftly whenever Maes threw his arm around his lover's shoulder.

_Damn it,_ Ed thought, _I am not gonna stick my nose in the kid's business. Got enough on my plate as it is._

After a night of much grumbling and little sleep, Roy had suggested Ed hit the street and walk out his irritation. "Not pissed at _you_," Ed mumbled in protest.

"Naturally," Roy agreed. "I am the soul of amiability this morning—"

"—says the man with the flaming red toenails—"

"—and besides, doesn't Maes have to get Collins back to the Bradley estate before breakfast?" Ed hesitated, but then heard the voices of the young men down the hall.

"Yeah. Okay. What_ever_. Need anything while I'm out?"

"I'm good," Roy's voice dropped an octave into low purr. "_Perfect_, actually."

"Fuck _you_."

"I'll have Sheska check my schedule. I believe I'm free around 2pm before the meeting with the finance committee. We'll have to make it fast, but with you on top that shouldn't be a problem."

Ed contemplated the trajectory of a thrown pillow from where he was standing and was disappointed. He _might_ smack Roy upside the head but not without risking the bedside lamp. "Remind me," he grumbled, "_why_ the hell I'm marrying and asshole like you?"

"Ah…" Roy scratched at a sleep-stubbled cheek. "Good insurance benefits and a tolerance of you farting in your sleep?"

The _last _thing Ed expected to see in the alley at 5:15 am was his daughter.

Like her stepfather, she had always been obsessively neat about her person. Ed hadn't seen a crescent of dirt under his daughter's nails since she stopped making mud pies. She didn't mind getting grubby when working in the stable or the garden or the lab, but as soon as she was done she tidied herself up, every dark hair smoothed neatly in place. The fact that she was caught in the back alleys of Central before dawn in greasy coveralls and her hair pinned up and shoved under a floppy workman's cap made him instantly certain that she was Up To No Good.

Alphonse rounded the corner to join her. This removed any doubt. The kid was up to something. "What the hell are you two doing out here?" Ed barked, grabbing Nina by the shoulders.

Alphonse and Nina glanced at each other. Nina looked doubtful. Alphonse looked confident and reassuring in spite of the black smears on his face and the disconcerting brown wig that didn't fit him particularly well. "Ed!" Alphonse's tone was entirely too cheerful for 5:15 in the morning in an area of town more suited to purse-snatchings and muggings than family reunions. "You're up early! Want to go down to Il Gattina with us? There's a two for one breakfast special this morning, and they've got banana pancakes back on the menu-"

"Pancakes my ass!"" Ed's arms began to windmill in frustration. "You two trying to get robbed or something? Damn it, what are you up to?"

"Daddy, we're _alchemists_. _Elric alchemists_. It's not like we can't defend ourselves—"

"—and you wouldn't HAVE to worry about defending yourselves if you weren't sneaking around in some back alley. I wanna know what the fuck you're up to and I wanna know now. You're not too big to spank—"

"I believe _I_ am." The voice behind him was low, cool and instantly recognizable.

Instinctively, Ed raised his arms over his head. It was a common reaction, even among people who had known Riza Hawkeye most of their lives. "_Colonel?"_

There was an exasperated sigh. "You can put your arms down, Edward. Alphonse and Nina," she clarified, "were assisting me."

"Oh yeah? Doing what?"

"I needed the assistance of trained alchemists. A matter of presidential…" she broke off and seemed to mumble slightly before clearing her throat. "…._security_. They were in no danger. The mission is completed. I have the information I need and I appreciate their assistance. That is why I offered to take them to breakfast."

Ed stared frankly at his daughter's grubby condition. "Like _that?_" he snorted.

"We were planning to wash up at Elycia's flat."

That was logical, Ed conceded. Nina had the key and it was right upstairs above Il Gattina. His eyes narrowed. "Makes sense. But if I hear anything from anybody that you got into any trouble, kiddo, I'll tell your mother—AND Nana Izumi—and they'll-"

"Oh,_Daddy!"_ Nina rolled her eyes in a manner so out of character—and so like her mother—that Ed instantly decided he would be better off never knowing what the kid had gotten herself into, especially if she needed Alphonse _and_ Colonel Hawkeye to get her out of it.

"Okay. I won't ask. You're grown up. Just don't ask me to make bail for you." The young woman pressed a swift kiss on her father's cheek. Hawkeye nodded. Al waved and grinned, and the trio disappeared down a side alley that would lead them to the delivery entrance to Elycia's bakery. Ed jammed his chilly hands into his coat pockets, shaking his head. _"Damn kids…."_

Cockburn's C-Town Grill had a nightmarish rooster painted on its plate glass windows and advertised "_electrically cooked waffles to order". _The grill was run by d a surly old war veteran called Big Cock who was famous for feeding the down and outers and kept a watch chain studded with the back molars he'd punched out of drunks who tried to make trouble. He was on Chris Mustang's short list of go-to guys if shit was about to go down in the capital. The waffles were crisp, the sausage was fresh and as long as you got there before 6:45 am the coffee didn't taste like ass. Big Cock Cockburn's leftovers kept hungry street kids like Davy Collins alive for the past thirty years, each greasy bag of biscuits or sausage shoved into grateful hands with a hearty, "go'wan—get the hell out of here! What—you think this is—a charity kitchen er sumpin?"

Sniffing hot donuts on the breeze, Ed gave the squeaky front door a shove with one shoulder and made his way across the wet, greasy floor to a counter stool. The joint was packed with soldiers, shoulder to shoulder, plowing into great plates of fried country ham and scrambled eggs. Ed snagged a menu and signaled for black coffee "in a _clean_ cup!" he specified. Big Cock scowled at him and rumbled something to the waitress about 'getting a booster seat for Short Stack' which Ed thankfully chose to ignore. "And get me a couple donuts to go with it," Ed added.

"_Here."_ To Ed's surprise, a coffee-stained saucer appeared at his elbow with two glazed donuts. "I can't eat more than four when I'm mad."

Ed swiveled around and was startled to find himself staring into the face of…_Riza Hawkeye?_

Couldn't be. He'd just seen her head off with Al and Nina, and closer inspection proved he was right. The eyes were blue, not brown, and makeup had been troweled on, and the baby pick lipstick was a shade Hawkeye wouldn't have worn even under direct presidential order. "_Gladys Turlough?"_

She wiggled her fingers at him. "Yoo-hoo." She wasn't smiling. Her eye make up, come to notice it, was slightly smeared.

"Kinda early for you to be out, huh? What are you doing in a dive like this?" It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she'd gone back to her 'old profession', as Aunt Chris insisted but it was too early in the day to get slapped off a diner stool.

She took a dainty bite of a cake donut, delicately licking the drifts of powdered sugar off her fingers. "We were doin' a night shoot. I got in a fight with that asswipe director and told him to shove it. I walked out—an' since I'm the star, they can't shoot without me." She nodded in the direction of the soldiers that filled the joint and at second glance Ed recognized that they weren't enlisted men—they were actors in costume. "I cam in here for coffee and a half-dozen donuts."

"Half a dozen…?" Damn. She _was_ mad. "So…? What the problem?"

She jammed her hand into a pink leather satchel on the stool beside her, yanked out a script and shoved it under Ed's nose. A polished nail pointed, indicating where he should begin reading.

By the time he finished, his coffee had gone cold. "That's_ total _bullshit!"  
"Right." She took a swallow of coffee, blotted her lips and began to touch up her lipstick. "Love duet for Mustang and Hawkeye. It ain't right. "

"That wasn't in the stage version."

"It wasn't in _real life_. Lookit, I know this is just a musical but this…this would make Colonel Hawkeye look really stupid. I told him I wouldn't do it."

Coming from the woman who had broken up Hawkeye and Havoc, this was a surprise. "That's important to you?"

"Yeah. "Cause she might have been sweet on him, but we all know he was sweet on Mister Hughes-and Jean was sweet on her. I don't like her," she shrugged, " but I'm still not gonna do this."

"Whose bright idea was this?" Ed wanted to know.

"Give ya two guesses. Mister Sherman 'let's sing penis jokes at the President's birthday' Lehrer. He's writing new songs for the _Fullmetal Alchemist_ movie. Now," she put away her lipstick and began to check the effect in her compact mirror, "I know it's Open Season on Roy Mustang right now because of that book that just came out, but I ain't playin'. The director said we couldn't just cut a musical number from the movie. I said I know, dipshit, and I told him I wrote somethin' nice that we could use. A song about Mister Hughes and Roy."

"_You_ wrote a song?"

"Well," she dimpled, "Me and Alphonse. He's got a way with words. What was it one of the girls at the bakery called him? A cunning linguist?"

Ed turned several interesting shades of crimson as he choked on a sugared cruller. Gladys patted him on the back until he caught his breath back. "You wanna see what I got-the _song_, I mean?"

For politeness' sake, Ed began to scan quickly over the typewritten page. As the words began to sink in, he stopped and began at the beginning:

We wanted to be soldiers—we were hardly more than kids

_We believed in Fuhrer Bradley—we believed in what we did_

_Then that cursed war in Ishbal opened up our dreaming eyes_

_In that senseless, mindless carnage, far more than our dreams died._

_From wounds within and wounds without, I've watched you break and bleed_

_I know what you want to do, Roy—and I know what you need._

_The lies they told our people have poisoned heart and soul_

_And evil's never justified—no matter what the goal_

_Someone's got to stop it—someone who understands_

_Someone who doesn't want to see more blood upon his hands_

_There has to be and end to this—on that we are agreed_

_If you've got the guts to change the world_

_I'll get you what you need…._

It was a very long time before Edward found his voice. "You wrote this?"

"Hey," she scolded softly. "I'm not as dumb as I act, ya know. But brains and ten cens will get you a cup of coffee and damn little else if you're a working girl—at least, used to be like that. Mustang gave jobs to women. Got us equal pay. Let us vote. If things had been different my ma coulda gotten an education, 'stead of havin' to scrub floors for a living. He's a good guy. I came up with the ideas and what I thought Hughes might have said to him after I talked with Miss Gracia. I kinda acted out to Alphonse what I thought they would say to each other and he set it to rhyme. I think he even talked to Miss Elycia some. Didn't he do a good job?"

In four verses, Gladys and Al and Nina and Elycia had summed up the heart of the profound friendship between Ed's lover and Hughes. It was not sentimental. It pulled no punches. And for the man who had known them both and the terrible sacrifice Hughes had made that cost the young officer and father his life, it made Ed's eyes sting and his throat tighten with emotion….

…_I'll work within the system—I'll make sure that you succeed_

_ Just give it all you've got, Roy—I'll get you what you need…_

"Is there a tune to that?"

"Yeah. Alphonse said it was an old folk song from up north. He used that to kinda get the rhyme. I wanted Sherman to write a new tune but he said it 'put that back on the bathroom roll where it's useful, doll.' Boy, what a creep!"

"You got another copy?" Ed looked down at the typed pages. "Can I have this?"

"For what?"

"I got an idea. Hey, Big Cock?"

The cook glared over his shoulder. "Whatdyawant, Short Stack?"

Ed flipped him a twenty-cens piece. "Miss Turlough doesn't pay her tab—ever. _It's on me."_

###

Kelly Winchell ripped off her sleep mask and flung it across the bedroom. Her lap dog, well familiar with his mistress' ugly moods, dove for safety under the bed. "This better be damn good or-" She snatched her gold filigree alarm clock off the antique nightstand. "It's not even seven o'clock!"

"It's Mr. Howe from Dewey, Dickon, Howe and Sons, Miss," the housekeeper informed her nervously. "Said it was very important. Something about _Fire and Vice_."

###

"Perfect. Absolutely perfect. And I'll be damned if I know how or why." Cameron Howe shook his head, staring down at the layouts of _Fire and Vice._ He'd inked the print roll and run some galley tests and tie imprint was crystal clean and absolutely legible.

Mr Dewey looked surprised. "Did you call Miss Winchell to tell her we can run the first printing now?"

Cameron Howe made a face like a cat licking something particularly nasty out of its fur. "I did. After which she informed me what I might do with the print rolls. Something distasteful and biologically impractical, to say the least." He didn't mention the comments suggesting that Mr. Howe's parents had not been married, let alone of the same species or the sounds of hurled objects smashing out the windows of her penthouse apartment. "The _good_ news, however, is that we have the print rolls, we have made a formal offer to run the printing –and increased her royalties on the first print to a full fifteen percent—"

_"FIFTEEN PERCENT?"_

"—which she immediately rejected. Now," a chilly smile lit the young man's keen features, "according to our contract with Miss Winchell, _we_ have now met all the legal terms regarding our responsibilities in the event of failure to meet a printing deadline. There was an unavoidable delay in printing _Fire and Vice_, " he ticked off the items on his fingers, "we have offered equitable compensation with a five percent increase to her royalties, we have offered to rush the first edition out and she has informed us—"

"—that we are a fat lot of diseased donkey's testicles and that she's taken her loathsome talents elsewhere," Mr. Dewey finished. "If she takes us to court as she's threatened, she doesn't have a leg to stand on. Furthermore, my boy, we still own the rights of her previously published books for the next ten years, since there's been no breach of contract."

"Which includes those charming children's stories we found." Cameron Howe rubbed his hands together in utterly understandable glee. "Oh, and it was just my luck that I found one last Buckety Buckety manuscript. It was laying in a dusty old box not far from where we located the print rolls of _Fire and Vice_."

Mr. Dewey adjusted his glasses and flipped through the yellowed manuscript, badly typed and splashed with exclamation points and misspelled words.

"Hmmm…._Buckety-Buckety And Wibbles The Wolf: The Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name. _Well…yes…this-OHHH MY!"

"You'll note the illustrations."

Mr. Dewey dropped the manuscript as if burned his fingers. "What has been seen, can't be _un_seen, more's the pity."

Cameron retrieved it, grinning openly now. "Not one for the juvenile shelves."

"Gad, no!"

"Think it will sell?"

"Like choc ice in the desert. Ring up the typesetters, will you, my boy?"

###

She would _flay them alive._ She would wrong Cameron Howe's skinny neck and feed him to her dog. She would sue them into penury, buy the company with her royalties off the new book and then burn the place to the ground and then _stomp_ on the ashes. She would _beggar _ those sons of whores, take them to the cleaners and destroy every last copy of that god-damned _Buckety-Buckety_ book. She would-

_"OWWWSHIIIT! What the fuck?"_

She had been marching through the back alleys to the DD&H&Sons' press and warehouse, purse whipping through the air, warming up her swatting arm for her meeting with Cameron Howe and Mr. God-Damned Dewey. She hadn't been watching where she was going and one arc of her handbag had collided with-

Sweet Fucking Ishballa On Whole Wheat Toast.

She'd just clobbered Edward Elric. His nose was bleeding and his broken glasses lay in the alley between her signature pink Aerugoan leather pumps.

If their roles had been reversed, she would have screamed for the cops, sobbing that she'd been brutally battered with full malice and forethought. She'd have pressed assault charges and sent him dragged off to jail.

That is what Kelly Winchell would have done.

Edward Elric was a hell of a lot more vindictive than that.

Bending down, he retrieved his battered frames from between her plump little feet. Blood dripping from both nostrils, his grin was most unpleasant indeed.

"Miss…Kelly….Winchell." His voice was a low purr—the kind that large carnivores make when they are gnawing on bones in the Big Cats exhibit at the Central Park Zoo. He held out his arm. _"Let's have coffee, shall we?"_

…TO BE CONTINUED….

AUTHOR'S NOTE: the lyrics from "What You Need" were written for me by Barbara Bowen,, 2007 with original music by Theresa Wachowiak. I was honored to have this written for me and have had the pleasure of performing it many, many times over the years. Lyrics shared with permission of author.


	25. Chapter 25

OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 25:HOT WATER

By the Binary Alchemist 2013

It wasn't a discussion Winry had wanted to have at the breakfast table, but her daughter Sara was never one to hold her tongue about anything. "Mom?" She held up the morning paper. "Did Uncle Roy really kill babies in the war?"

Sara was pointing to an article on the front page of the _Central Times_ with the headline "_Blood And Fire_—A New Look At The President's Role In The Ishballan Massacre". 'It says here," she read aloud, "_'the release of these previously unseen photographs by former military photographer and news reporter Donal Samuelson show in graphic detail the historic 1908 Dahlia campaign and does not flinch from images of charred corpses, smoking ruins and, in one notable image, a badly burned infant clinging to the body of its dead mother. While the volume acknowledges the actions of other well known alchemists such as Alex Louis Armstrong, Giglio Comanche and Zolf Kimblee, much of the book's focus centers upon the actions of the then 22-year-old President Roy Mustang, who had recently been certified as a State Alchemist'—"_

"Give me that!" Winry snatched the paper out of her daughter's hand before Sara could read any more and upset her siblings. She scanned the article and shook her head. Her children, thankfully, were not growing up in wartime as she and Pitt and the Elric brothers had done. Winry had lost her parents, and even Pitt's mother had been caught in the crossfire that day in 1907 when Ishballan rebels, armed with Aerugoan weapons, invaded and burned most of Resembool to the ground. For every Amestrian civilian who was killed nearly a hundred more Ishballan men, women and children lost their lives . To Winry's mind, there was no point keeping score. The war had been senseless, needless and served only the purposes of the regime Roy Mustang had fought to remove from power. '

"Sara," she said as calmly as she could manage, "before you jump to any conclusions, we need to talk. But not now. After breakfast, let's go down to the shop, okay? There's a lot more to this than in the story. My mom and dad were actually there during the war, and your Aunt Riza was there, too. I'm going to put this away," she gestured towards the morning news, "for now and then let's talk after breakfast, okay?"

"Okayyyy…." Sara looked confused and troubled. She adored Uncle Roy. He didn't visit often but whenever she and her siblings came to visit in Central he always treated the children kindly, always interested in them and their dreams and ambitions. He had encouraged her to keep up with her studies and when she shyly admitted her hopes of studying veterinary medicine he had gifted her with a number of very valuable books he'd found for her. He seemed to care for her, and her step siblings Maes and Nina loved him very, very much. It upset her to think that a man who could be so kind could _kill_ other children…had she been wrong about Uncle Roy all along?

###

"Welcome back, Colonel Hawkeye." Roy didn't even glance up from his paperwork. "I'm going on the assumption that Doctor Knox has released you from care with no restrictions?"

"Yes, Sir."

"What was his diagnosis?"

Hawkeye was still standing crisply at attention. "Hypertension, Sir, with mild tachycardia. It runs in the family on my mother's side, according to my mother's medical records. Doctor Knox has prescribed medications that have worked successfully. My blood pressure is now within normal limits and there are no restrictions on my activities."

_"Good."_ There was something quietly emphatic in that single word that made it clear to Hawkeye that Mustang was relieved she would be fine. "You will continue under his medical supervision and I expect to be updated with any change in your condition. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Since this is your first day back, I need you to attend to some personal correspondence regarding the economic summit in Table City in three weeks. Familiarize yourself with the itinerary and check to see if there are any potential security issues. Major Havoc is coordinating."

A slight pause. "Very good, Sir."

"This morning I'll be in a Parliamentary meeting. I expect to be there until after lunch. I have scheduled an inspection for you this morning."

"Inspection, sir?"

Mustang pressed the intercom and called for Sebastian, who appeared with disturbing efficiency. "Sebastian, Colonel Hawkeye will be inspecting the second floor Nihonese bathing room. I have consulted with Doctor Knox and he assures me that the water temperature is not sufficient to cause any health risks. You will provide her with towels, a dressing gown and tea. Following this, she will inspect the third floor solarium and critique Chef Ramsay's revised luncheon menu. We will be having several dignitaries visiting for the wedding. I need to be certain that our hospitality is up to presidential standards. Dismissed!"

Since Roy and Ed didn't generally luxuriate in the sunken bath during the morning hours, they had made the bathing room accessible by invitation to the immediate family and personal staff. Alphonse had enjoyed it quite a bit, and Havoc had been scolded for leaving ashtrays along the edge of the tub and Nina had scolding him sharply for smoking inside the house.

So when he was called into the President's office for his daily assignments he was surprised to be told to inspect the Nihonese bathing room on the second floor. "Check for booby traps, Major. Make sure nothing escapes your attention. I need to check inside the tub and its surroundings. We had plumbing staff on site yesterday checking the overflow skimmer and I want a security follow-up. Sebastian will provide you with towels. Dismissed!"

"Yessir!"

Ruby, who had brought some reports from Ed's office for Roy to look over, glanced at the tall Major as he closed the doors behind him.

Her sharp gaze moved to the President. "_Booby_ traps." She rolled her eyes. "Even for _you_, that's bad."

Accustomed to Ruby's lack of respect for anything with a pulse other than Alphonse Elric, Roy smirked into his coffee cup. "This ridiculous quarrel between the Major and the Colonel has gone on long enough. I don't have time for this. "

"What are you going to do, lock them in the bath room together?"

Roy glanced at her, pleasantly reminded once again why Ruby made such a perfect foil and bodyguard for Ed. She was, as Ramsay once observed, definitely one of the sharper knives in the drawer. "An excellent suggestion. See to it, Ruby."

"You got it, boss man. Oh," she added, almost nonchalantly, you've got mail."

He gave her a mildly exasperated look. "I _always_ have mail, Ruby. I'm the President of Amestris. "

'Yeah, well, _Mister_ President, you don't always get mail like _this_." Stepping out into the hall, she returned, pushing a full mail cart ahead of her. "The guys in the mailroom had to call in for reinforcements."

Roy looked surprised. Normally his personal mail load was impressive but this was nearly double his morning delivery. The mail room boys sorted his correspondence. Official mail went to Sheska. Anything that might be construed as threatening or suspect went to Hawkeye, Havoc having filled in during her absence. Personal requests, messages from children, and other non-official letters for Roy went through the secretarial team who vetted the requests and sorted them under Greeting, Grievance, Wants Money, Wants Sex, Marriage Proposals, Suggestions, Assistance and Kids. Anything written by a child was delivered straight to Roy's desk and he and Sheska did their best to acknowledge and respond to each one, even if it was just a quick note.

"I'm guessing these are from the marriage proposal bin," Roy guessed. "I never knew that my impending nuptials would make so many women and men jealous."

"You _wish_. Nope, we've got a brand new category for you, Big Man: War Correspondence."

"_Reall_y. If this is about _Blood and Fire_, the damn thing has only been out—let me see…" Snagging the first letter off the top of the bin, Roy unfolded it and began to read aloud. "Juliet Heismann, Age 11. '_Dear President Mustang—you made my little sister cry. We saw in a book that you burned up babies and people and killed all the Isballan people with fire. I didn't know you could do that. That is very, very mean. My sister cried and cried and said you were a bad man. Dad said it was in a war. I told her I would ask you if you were a bad man or did somebody make you do it? Even if they did, you should have said no…"_

He opened another. "_You are a bad, scary man. Go away." _ He folded the note, scrawled in purple crayon. "Calvin, age 7, Mrs. Teague's class. West Central Elementary."

"So…what are you going to do," Ruby wanted to know.

Roy straightened his back and began to neatly stack the children's letters on his desk. "I'm going to read them." He took a deep breath. "And find a way to answer them. _All _ of them."

###

Hawkeye left for the palace as soon as she'd finished her breakfast, and so Alphonse had had time to linger over coffee at Il Gattina's with his niece. He was still rather dusty and grimy from crawling around in the back of the Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons warehouse, standing guard while Nina repaired the damage done to the print rollers of _Fire and Vice_.

The young woman was quite contrite over what she had done—more so since the damage directly resulted in Kelly Winchell teaming up with Donal Samuelson and the release of _Blood and Fire_. She had cried in her uncle's arms, harder than she had ever wept as a child. And when Elycia had confided to Alphonse and Hawkeye that Nina had recently decided to lay aside a possible career in medical alchemy for public service, the two old friends thought hard about what had been done and how to find an equivalent exchange for the harm done.

Finally, Alphonse pronounced his judgment. 'Nina…everybody makes mistakes. I know that better than anybody, except maybe your dad…and your Uncle Roy. We can't run away from our mistakes and we have a responsibility to face up to what we've done. _However_," he lifted a cautioning finger, "if we turn you in or send you to the police, we could be robbing the future of one of the most dedicated public servants it has ever had. This country _needs_ minds like yours, Nina. I'm upset that you and your brother broke the law but I don't want your career in public service ruined before it begins…_so_…here is what we will do…."

Young Cameron Howe wasn't upset to be awakened out of a sound sleep in the wee hours. What he wasn't used to was pretty girls and their famous uncles and a legendary general invading his flat to talk in the middle of the night. But he was young enough and kind enough to offer them coffee and cake and to listen as the earnest young woman told him how she had orchestrated the sabotaging of the print run of _Fire and Vice._ She admitted candidly that she was wrong, had led her brother to do wrong and asked not only for forgiveness but the best way to make things right.

He could have reported her to the police for criminal vandalism, but the sincerity in her voice and face and the great pleasure of not having to deal with Kelly Winchell again swayed him to handle the matter privately.

And so it was that Nina Elric had repaired the print rolls, Cameron watching in amazement as she worked, great sparks of blue light flashing from her fingertips. "Gee, that's impressive," he whistled, adding slyly, "you don't think you might transmute another Buckety-Buckety book for me, would you?" He was smiling now. "If you could manage that, I'd say the debt is settled. And," he pulled out some typewritten notes from his desk, "I've got a few ideas from Winchell's old letters about where the story was heading…it could be a corker if we tried…maybe we could discuss this over luncheon…if you don't mind?" He shook her hand gently. "Sometimes we land in hot water and get scalded…but if we're lucky we get a good cup of tea in the bargain."

Back at Rose Hill Alphonse had been about to shower off the grime and dust when it occurred to him that a long soak in the sunken bath might be just the ticket after a long and wearying night. Pulling on his dressing gown he strolled down the hall to the bathing room, confident that, with Ed out of the house and Roy at work, his warm dip would be completely undisturbed….

###

"_Let's go get some coffee, shall we?"_

Kelly Winchell was given just enough time to snatch back her composure after recognizing the owner of the nose she had just smashed with her purse. She drew herself up indignantly. "I have nothing to say to you."

The evil grin widened. "Didn't think so. You _sure_ you won't have coffee with me?" Kelly Winchell didn't dignify him with an answer. "Okay. You asked for it."

Edward Elric _screamed_. It was very loud, very high pitched and instantly regrettable. It cut through her ears like a chain saw against solid steel. He dropped to the ground, clutching his bleeding face and rolled himself up into a ball, whimpering with agony. "_….my face…oh god…my face…my-"_

"You're not hurt," she hissed. "Get up, Elric! You look ridiculous!"

Edward continued to yell, the blood from his nose making a gory mess of his shirt. Several drunks peered around corners and out of rubbish dumpsters to see what the ruckus was al about. Annoyed, Winchell poked him with her foot. He screamed louder. "I'm _blind! I can't see! She smashed my glasses into my face!"_

"Oy! Watchermessinwivhim for, eh?" A mouldy green overcoat that stank of piss appeared at Kelly Winchell's elbow. There was a head above the collar, and when the mouth opened to speak the stench of the man's breath nearly wilted her hair spray.

"Somebody _messin'_ wit' da Perfesser?" A toothless woman wanted to know. A battered straw hat was jammed on her head, studded with the most lethal assortment of rusty hat pins Winchell had ever seen.

"Oooh, lookit the _blood!"_ A stocky one-legged man hopped over on crutches. His teeth, what there were of them, sported a fascinating array of green bits, as if he had just trimmed someone's lawn with his choppers. "Mustang'll not like seein' His Nibs all bloody-like."

"Who…_what_…the _hell_…are you?" Winchell stuttered, clutching her bag to her bosom and unconsciously stepping closer to Edward Elric as if he might protect her.

Edward sat up abruptly, smiling broadly. "Glad you asked, Miss Winchell. Allow me to introduce you to Big Cock's Flock—well, some of them, anyway. This is Madhattie—" the harpy with the straw hat curtsied. "—and Sweetlips—" he saluted the moss-toothed man on crutches, "and let's not forget Foul Ole Rooney—don't' let him touch you. Scabies are pretty contagious."

"Not to worry, Perfesser. Wouldn't let the ole ratbag lay a finger on me," Foul Ole Rooney assured him, stepping back a bit from Winchell. "Don't wan' none of her uptown cooties in me hair!"

Winchell was having none of this. Even though the Flock scared the willies out of her she refused to be intimidated. "Get away from me or…or…I'll call for the police!"

"An' tellem wot, persisely?" Madhattie asked. "That'choo bashed th' lad in th' face wiv your bag—and him so pretty an' all!"

"Oooh! It's a _scandal_, I tell you!" Sweetlips sighed. "I think we need to send for Big Cock."

Winchell paled. "Who…?"

"Guy I've known since I was twelve. He's got some _really_ creative ways of keeping the peace in this neighborhood. "

"Fink she gots any _gold_ fillin's in her teeth?" Rooney wanted to know. "Look good on Big Cock's watch chain if he punches 'em out her flappin' jaw, like."

Ed lifted his hand, signaling for quiet. 'Nobody is punching anybody. We're all…_friends…_here, right?" Kelly Winchell's mouth dropped open in shock. "I _said_ right?" Ed repeated. "You might want to nod," he whispered to the novelist, "if you want to get out of here with your purse in hand and your teeth still in your head." Winchell nodded, absolutely terrified. "Right! Okay. Thanks, guys!" He fished a few banknotes out of his pocket and handed them around. "Now, go round back to Chris Mustang's and she'll have the boys in the kitchen fry you up some steak and eggs and get you a couple of bottles of ale for breakfast."

The trio wandered off, giving off strange whistles as they walked. Other shadowy figures crawled out of hiding and joined them. "You see, Aunt Chris and Big Cock take care of the homeless folks out here," Ed informed his companion. "And in turn, if they hear or see any trouble, Big Cock and Aunt Chris are the first to hear about it—and what they know, Roy Mustang knows, and what Roy Mustang knows can get you into really hot water, lady." He rose and wiped the blood off his hands on the seat of his pants. "You got a mirror?" Wordlessly, she dug into her purse and handed the compact over. "Jeeze, that's impressive!" Ed whistled, accessing the damage. "I'd say that's a deviated septum for sure. What the fuck do you keep in that handbag, brass knuckles?" There were bruises on his face where the frames of his glasses had been driven against the skin. "Crap. Doctor Knox is gonna have fun fixing me up."

"What…what are you going to—"

"Was I going to hand you over to Big Cock? Lady, you don't _deserve_ a Big Cock…ahahhaahaaa…._shrggkkkkkptui!"_" Ed spat out a mouthful of bloody snot. "I've got grounds for charges and a whole alleyfull of witnesses—plus you've got my blood on your handbag. I've got you dead to rights, Kelly Winchell."

She reached for her checkbook. "How much-?"

"Save it, lady. You can't buy me off. And you can't buy _them_ off—" he gestured towards the retreating crowd of homeless, "—because trust me, Chris Mustang has more money than you'll EVER have. What I want-" he leaned in close. She held her breath. "—is Equivalent Exchange. No more. No less. That's going to take some evaluating. I need to see how bad the damage is. And I ain't talking about monetary value of fixing my glasses or my nose. Not to mention, I have to explain to the President how I got my face smashed up."

"You know damn well I didn't mean to—"

"Ah, but you meant to hit somebody, right? I mean, what the hell are you doing in this part of town at this hour of the morning?"

Winchell pressed her lips tightly together. It wouldn't do to have Elric know she was heading over to Dewey, Dickon, and Howe and Sons to raise hell with that awful Cameron Howe. 'I was waiting for the bookshops to open."

"Oh yeah? Speaking of books—" he grabbed the bloody purse and peered inside. "_Damn_. You've got—let's see—seven…eight-eight copies of _Buckety-Buckety_ in your purse, lady. No wonder you broke my damn nose."

She had forgotten that she had found eight copies on the shelf at Bounders Books near the train station last night during a _Blood and Fire _ book signing and bought them all, threatening the manager with dire consequences if he reordered any more copies. "I…I didn't mean—"

"—skip it, lady. Just skip it. Gimme your phone number."

"Why?"

'I said I needed to think about how you're gonna make this up to me—unless you'd rather I call the cops and have them chat with our…_witnesses?_ No? Okay, hand it over."

She scribbled her number on the inside of a copy of _Buckety-Buckety _ and shoved it at him.

Tucking his broken glasses into the pocket of his waistcoat, Ed offered the hack novelist a courtly little bow and walked away."

"Wait!" she shouted. "What are you going to do?"

_"In order to obtain something desired," _ Edward recited cheerfully as he turned the corner, "_something of equal value must be sacrificed…"_

…TO BE CONTINUED…


End file.
